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TOLD IN THE HILLS 


BY 


MAR AH ELLIS RYAN, 


Author of “In Love’s Domains,” “ Merze,” Etc. 



CHICAGO AND NEW YORK: 

Rand, McNally &. Company, Publishers. 

1891 . 


V 





Copyright, 1891, by Rand, McXally & Co., Chicago. 
All Rights Reserved. 

The HiliT 








IN ALL REVERENCE— 


IN ALL GRATITUDE 
TO THE FRIENDS GRANTED ME 

P.Y 

THE WEST. 


Fayette Spkincjs, Penn. 
October 14. 1890. 


^■4 ■ 


« 



CONTENTS 


PART FIRST. 

THE PLEDGE. 


PART SECOND. 

A CULT US CORRIE. 

CHAPTER. PAGE. 

1 . On Scot’s Mountain 20 

11 . As THE Sun Rose 32 

III. What is a Squaw Man?.38 

IV. Banked Fires 47 

V. At'‘La t Cami'.58 

VI. Tsolo —Tso-I.o - - - ,.66 

VII. Under the Chinook Moon.80 

VIII. The Storm—and After.91 


♦ PART THIRD. 

PRINCE CHARLIE. 

CHAPTER. 

1 . In the Kootenai Spring-time 
11 . A Recruit from the World 
HI. At Cross-purposes - - . . 

IV. A Trio in Wiichland - 
V. A Visit in the Night-time 

VI. Neighbors of the North Park - 
VH. A Woman who was Lost—Long Ago! 
VIII. I’ll Kill PIim this Time! 

IX. After Ten Years . . . . 

X. The Telling of a Story 


PAGE. 

I2I 

- 142 

157 

- 180 

195 

- 208 
217 

- 233 
246 

- 260 





PART FOURTH. 


ONE SQUAW MAN. 

CHAPTER. •' PAGE. 

I. Lamonti.281 

IL A Philosophical Horse-thief.296 

III, The Squaw who Rides.306 

IV, Through the Lost Mine - .318 

V, His Wife’s Letter.335 

VI, On the Heights.339 

VII, A Rebel - - - - - - - - - 342 

VIII. When the Sun Goeth Down - . . - . 350 

IX. Rashell of Lamonti - - . - . . 357 





# 


Kopa Mesika— 

Nika sik/is klaksta kumtucks — 
Klaksta yakwa mainook elahan, 
Nika mahsie — 7nahsie kwanesiim. 


M. E. R. 






TOLD IN THE HILLS 


Thou shah not see ihy brother’s ox, or his sheep, go astray. * 

* * Thou shah l)ring it unto thine own liouse, and it shall be 

with thee until thy brother seek after it, and thou shah restore it to 
him again. ******* 

* And with all lost things of thy brother’s which he hath lost, 

and thou hast found, shah thou do likewise. * * * 

******** 

In any case thou shah deliver him the pledge again when the sun 
goeth down.— Deuierononiy. 


, PART F^IRST. 

THE PLEDGE. 

"The only one of the name who is not a gentleman;” 
those words were repeated over and over by a young 
fellow who walked;, one autumn morning, under the 
shade of old trees and along a street of aristocratic 
houses in old New Orleans. 

He would have been handsome had it not been for 
the absolutel}^ wicked expression of his face as he 
muttered to himself while he walked. He looked 
about twenty-five—dark and tall—so tall as to be a 
noticeable man among many men, and so well-propor¬ 
tioned, and so confidently careless in movement as not 
to be ungainly—the confidence of strength. 

Some negroes whom he passed turned to look after 
him, even the whites he met eyed him seriously. He 

9 




lO 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


looked like a man off a sleepless journey, his eyes 
were bloodshot, his face haggard, and over all was 
that malignant expression of devilment. 

He stopped at a house set back from the street, and 
half-smothered in the shade of the trees and great 
creeping vines that flung out long arms from the 
stone walls. There was a stately magnificence about 
its grand entrance, and its massive proportions—it 
showed so plainly the habitation of wealth. Evi¬ 
dently the ill-natured looking individual was not a 
frequent visitor there, for he examined it, and the 
numbers about with some indecision; then his eyes fell 
on the horse-block, in the stone of which a name was 
carved. A muttered something, which was not a bless¬ 
ing, issued from his lips as he read it, but with inde¬ 
cision at an end he strode up the walk to the house. A 
question was asked and answered by the dubious- 
looking darkey at the door, a message sent somewhere 
to the upper regions, and then the darkey, looking no 
less puzzled, requested the gentleman to follow him 
to the “Young Massa’s” study. The gentleman did so, 
noting with those wicked side glances of his the mag¬ 
nificence of the surroundings, and stopping short 
before a picture of a brunette, willowy girl that rested 
on an easel. The face was lovely enough to win praise 
from any man, but an expression, strangely akin to that 
bestowed on the carven' name outside, escaped him. 
Through the lattice of the window the laughter of 
woman came to him—as fresh and cheery as the light 
of the young sun, and bits of broken sentences also— 
words of banter and retort. 

“Ah, but he is beautiful—your husband!” sighed a 
girlish voice with the accent of France; “so impress- 
ibly charming! And so young. You two children!” 



THE PLEDGE. 


II 


Some gay remonstrance against childishness was 
returned, and then the first voice went on: 

“And the love all of one quick meeting, and one 
quick, grand passion that only the priest could bring 
cure for? And how shy you were, and how secret— 
was it not delightful? Another Juliet and her Romeo. 
Only it is well your papa is not so ill-pleased.” 

“Why should he be? My family is no better than my 
husband’s—only some richer; but we never thought 
of that—we two. I thought of his beautiful change¬ 
able eyes, and he thought of my black ones, and—well, 
I came home to papa a w’ife, and my husband said 
only, ‘I love her,’ when we were blamed for the haste 
and the secrecy, and papa was won—as I think every 
one is, by his charming boyishness; but,” with a lit¬ 
tle laugh, “he is not a boy.” 

“Though he is younger than yourself?” 

“Well, what then? I am twenty-three. You see 
we are quite an old couple, for he is almost within a 
year of being as old. Come; my lord has not yet 
come down. I have time to show you the roses. I 
am sure they are the kind you want.” 

Their chatter and gaiety grew fainter as they walked 
away from the window, and their light chat added no 
light to the visitor’s face. He paced up and down 
the room with the eager restlessness of some caged 
thing. A step sounded outside that brought him to 
a halt—a step and a mellow voice with the sweetness 
of youth in it. Then the door opened and a tall form 
entered swiftly, and quick words of welcome and of sur¬ 
prise came from him as he held out his hand heartily. 

But it was not taken. The visitor stuck his hands 
in the pockets of his coat, and surveyed with a good 
deal of contempt his host. 


12 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


Yet he was a fine, manly-looking fellow, almost as 
tall as his visitor, and fairer in coloring. His hair 
was a warmer brown, while the other man’s was black. 
His eyes were frank and open, while the other’s 
were scowling and contracted. They looked like alle¬ 
gorical types of light and darkness as they stood there, 
yet something of the breadth of forehead and form of 
the nose gave a suggestion of likeness to their faces, 
and the younger one clouded indignantly as he drew 
back his offered hand. 

“Why, look here, old fellow, what’s up?” he asked 
hastily, and then the indignation fled before some 
warmer feeling, and he went forward impulsively, lay¬ 
ing his hand on the other’s arm. 

“Just drop that,” scowled his visitor. “I didn’t come 
here for that sort of thing, but for business—yes—you 
can bet your money on that! ” 

His host laughed and dropped into a chair. 

‘TVell, you don’t look as if you come on a pleasure 
trip,” lie agreed, “and I think you might look a little 
more agreeable, considering the occasion and—and— 
everything. I thought father would come down sure, 
when I wrote I was married, but I didn’t expect to 
see anyone come in this sort of a temper. What is 
it? Has your three-year-old come in last in the fall 
race, or have you lost money on some other fellow’s 
stock, and what the mischief do you mean by sulking 
at me?” 

“It ain’t the three-year-old, and it ain’t money lost,” 
and the dark eyes were watching every feature of the 
frank young face; “the business I’ve come on is—you.” 

“Look here,” and the young fellow straightened up 
with the conviction that he had struck the question, 
“is it because of my—marriage?” 




THE PLEDGE. 


13 


“Rather.” Still those watchful eyes never changed. 

“Well,” and the fair face flushed a little, “I suppose 
it wasn’t just the correct thing; but you’re not exactly 
the preacher for correct deportment, are you?” and 
the words, though ironical, were accompanied by such 
a bright smile that no offense could be taken from 
them. “But I’ll tell you how it happened. Sit 
down. I would have sent word before,if I’d suspected it 
myself, but I didn’t. Now don’t look so glum, old 
fellow. I never imagined you would care. You see 
we were invited to make up a yacht party and go to 
Key West. We never had seen each other until the 
trip, and—well, we made up for the time we had lost 
in the rest of our lives; though I honestly did not 
think of getting married—anymore than you would. 
And then, all at once, what little brains I had were 
upset. It began in jest, one evening in Key West, 
and the firkale of it was that before we went to sleep 
that night we were married. No one knew it until we 
got back to New Orleans, and then I wrote home at 
once. Now, I’m ready for objections 

“When you left home you were to be back in two 
months—it is four now. Why didn’t you come?” 

“Well, you know I was offered the position of 
assistant here to Doctor Grenier; that was too good 
to let go. ” 

“Exactly'; but you could have got off, I reckon, to 
have spent your devoted father’s birthday at home— 
if you wanted to.” 

“He was your father first,” was the good-humored 
retort. 

“Why didn’t you come home?” 

There was a hesitation in the younger face. For the 
first time he looked ill at ease. 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


H 


“I don’t know why I should give you any reason 
except that I did not want to,” he returned, and then 
he arose, walking back and forth a couple of times 
across the room and stopping at a window, with his 
back to his visitor. “But I will,” he added impul¬ 
sively. “I stayed away on account of—Annie.” 

The dark eyes fairly blazed at the name. 

“Yes?” 

“I—I was a fool when I was home last spring,” con¬ 
tinued the young fellow, still with his face to the 
window. “I had never realized before that she had 
grown up or that she was prettier than anyone I knew, 
until you warned me about it—you remember?” 

“I reckon I do,” was the grim reply. 

“Well, I tried to be sensible. I did try,” he pro¬ 
tested, though no contradiction was made. “And after 
I left I concluded I had better stay away until—well, 
until we were both a little older and more level¬ 
headed. ” 

“It’s a pity you didn’t reach that idea before you 
left,” said the other significantly. 

“What!” 

“And before you turned back for that picture you 
had forgotten. ” 

“What do you mean?” and for the first time a sort of 
terror shone in his face—a dread of the dark eyes that 
were watching him so cruelly. “Tell me what it is 
you mean, brother. ” 

“You can just drop that word,” was the cold remark. 
“I haven’t any relatives to my knowledge. Your 
father told me this morning I was the only one of 
the name who was not a gentleman. I reckon I’ll get 
along without either father or brother for the rest of 
my life. The thing I came here to see about is the 




THE PLEDGE. 


15 


homestead. It is yours and mine—or will be some 
day. What do you intend doing with your share?" 

"Well, Pm not ready to make my will yet," said 
the other, still looking uneasy as he waited further 
explanations. 

‘‘I rather think you’ll change your mind about that, 
and fix it right here, and now. To-day I want you to 
transfer every acre of your share to Annie.” 

"What?" 

"To insure her the home you promised your mother 
she should always have.” 

"But look here—” 

"To insure it for her and—her child.” 

The face at the window was no longer only start¬ 
led, it was white as death. 

"Good God! You don’t mean that!” he gasped. 
“It is not true. It can’t be true!” 

"You contemptible cur! You damnable liar!” mut¬ 
tered the other through his teeth. "You sit there like 
the whelp that you are, telling me of this woman you 
have married, with not a thought of that girl up in 
Kentucky that you had a right to marry. Shooting 
you wouldn’t do her any good, or I wouldn’t leave the 
work undone. Now I reckon you’ll make the transfer.” 

The other had sat down helplessly, with his head in 
his hands. 

"I can’t believe it—I can’t believe it,” he repeated 
heavily. "Why—why did she not write to me?” 

"It wasn’t an easy thing to write, I reckon,” said the 
other bitterly, "and she waited for you to come back. 
She did send one letter, but you were out on the water 
with your fine friends, and it was returned. The next 
we heard was the marriage. Word got there two days 
ago, and then—she told me.” 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


l 6 


“You!” and he really looked unsympathetic enough 
to exempt him from being chosen as confidant of heart 
secrets. 

“Yes; and she shan’t be sorry for it if I can help it. 
What about that transfer?” 

“I’ll make it;” and the younger man rose to his feet 
again with eyes in which tears shone. “I’ll do any¬ 
thing under God’s heaven for her! I’ve never got rid 
of the sight of her face. It—it hoodooed me. I 
couldn’t get rid of it!—or remorse! I thought it best 
to stay away, we were so young to marry, and there 
was my profession to work for yet; and then on top of 
all my sensible plans there came that invitation on 
the yacht—and so you know the whole story; and now 
—what will become of her?” 

“You fix that transfer, and I’ll look after her.” 

“You! I don’t deserve this of you, and—” 

“No; I don’t reckon you do,” returned the other, 
tersely; “and when you—damn your conceit!—catch me 
doing that or anything else on your account, just let 
me know. It isn’t for either one of you, for that 
matter. It’s because I promised.” 

The younger dropped his arms and head on the 
table. 

“You promised!” he groaned. “I—I promised as 
well as you, and mother believed me—trusted me, 
and, noAV—oh, mother! mother!” 

His remorseful emotion did not stir the least sym¬ 
pathy in his listener, only a chilly unconcern as to 
his feelings in the matter. 

“Yes, you cried just about that way when you made 
the promise,” he remarked indifferently. “It was 
wasted time and breath then, and I reckon it’s the same 
thing now. You can put in the rest of your life in the 



THE PLEDGE. 


17 


wailing and gnashing of teeth business if you want to 
—you might get the woman you married to help you, 
if you tell her what she has for a husband. But just 
now there are other things to attend to. I am leaving 
this part of the country in less than six hours, and 
this thing must be settled first. I want your promise 
to transfer to Annie all interest you have in the home¬ 
stead during your lifetime, and leave it to her by 
will in case the world is lucky enough to get rid of 
you. ” 

“I promise.” 

His head was still on the table; he did not look up 
or resent in any way the taunts thrown at him. He 
seemed utterly crushed by the revelations he had lis¬ 
tened to. 

‘‘And another thing I want settled is, that you are 
never again to put foot on that place or in that house, 
or allow the woman you married to go there, that you 
will neither write to Annie nor try to see her.” 

‘‘But there might be circumstances—” 

‘‘There are no circumstances that will keep me from 
shooting you like the dog you are, if you don’t make 
that promise, and keep it,” said the other deliberately. 
‘‘I don’t intend to trust to your word. But you’ll never 
find me too far out of the world to get back here if 
you make it necessary for me to come. And the prom¬ 
ise I expect is that you’ll never set foot on the old 
place again without my consent—” and the phrase was 
too ironical to have much room for hope. 

‘‘I promise. I tell you I’ll do anything to make 
amends,” he moaned miserably. 

‘‘Your whole worthless life wouldn’t do that!” was 
the bitter retort. ‘‘Now, there is one thing niore I 
want understood,” and his face became more set and 


i8 


TOLD i;^ THE HILLS. 


hardened; “Annie and her child are to live in the 
house tliat should be theirs by right, and they are to 
live there respected—do you hear? That man you call 
father has about as much heart in him as a sponge. 
He would turn her out of the house if he knew the 
truth, and in this transfer of yours he is to know noth¬ 
ing of the reason—understand that. He is quite ready 
to think it prompted by your generous, affectionate 
heart, and the more he thinks that, the better it will 
be for Annie. You will have a chance to pose for the 
rest of your life as one of the most honorable of men, 
and the most loyal to a dead mother’s trust,” and a 
sound that would have been a laugh but for its bitter¬ 
ness broke from him as he walked to the door; “that 
will suit you, I reckon. One more lie doesn’t matter, 
and the thing I expect 3^011 to do is make that transfer 
to-day and send it to Annie with a letter that anyone 
could read, and be none the wiser—the only letter 
you’re to ever write her. You have betrayed that 
trust; its mine now.” 

“And you’ll be worth it,” burst out the other heart- 
brokenly; “worth a dozen times over more than I ever 
could be if I tried my best. You’ll take good care 
of her, and—and—good God! If I could only speak 
to her once ! ” 

“If you do. I’ll know it, and I’ll kill you!” said the 
man at the door. 

He was about to walk out when the other arose 
bewilderedly. 

“Wait,” he said, and llis livid face was convulsed 
pitifully. He was so little more than a boy. “This 
what you have told me has muddled my head. I can’t 
think. I know the promises, and I’ll keep them. If 
shooting myself would help her, I’d do that; but you 





THE PLEDGE. 


19 


say you are leaving the country, and Annie is to live 
on at the old place, and—and yet be respected? I 
can’t understand how, with—under the—the circum¬ 
stances. I—’’ 

“No, I don’t reckon you can,” scowled the other, 
altogether unmoved by the despairing eyes and broken, 
remorseful words. “It isn’t natural that you should 
understand a man, or how a man feels; but Annie’s 
name shall be one you had a right to give her four 
months ago—” 

“What are you saying?” broke in the other with fever¬ 
ish intensity; “tell me! tell me what it is you mean!” 

“I mean that she shan’t be cheated out of a name for 
herself and child by your damned rascality ! Her name 
for the rest of her life will be the same as yours—just 
remember that when you forward that transfer. She is 
my wife. We were married an hour before I started.” 

And then the door closed, and the dark, malignant 
looking fellow stalked out into the morning sunlight, 
and through the odorous walk where late lilies nodded 
as he passed. He seemed little in keeping with their 
fragrant whiteness, for he looked not a whit less scowl- 
ingly wicked than on his entrance; and of some men 
working on the lawn, one said to another: 

“Looks like he got de berry debbel in dem snappin’ 
eyes—see how dey shine. Mighty rakish young 
genilman to walk out o’ dat doah—look like he been 
on a big spree.” 

And when, the bride and her friend came chattering 
in, with their hands full of roses, they found a strange, 
unheard-of thing had happened. The tall young hus¬ 
band, so strong, so long acclimated, had succumbed to 
the heat of the morning, or the fragrance of the tube¬ 
rose beside him, and had fallen in a fainting fit by 
the door. 


PART SECOND. 


“ACULTUS CORRIE.” 


CHAPTER 1 . 

ON scot’s mountain. 

"The de’il tak^ them wi’ their weeman folk, whose 
nerves are too delicate for a squaw man, or an Injun 
guide. I’d tak’ no heed o’ them if I was well, an’ I’ll 
do less now I’m plagued wi’ this reminder o’ that griz¬ 
zly’s hug. It gives me many’s the twinge whilst out 
lookin’ to the traps." 

"Where’s your gallantry, MacDougall?" asked a 
deep, rather musical voice from the cabin door; "and 
your national love for the ‘winsome sex,’as I’ve heard 
you call it? If ladies are with them you can’t refuse. ” 

"Can I not? Well, I can that same now," said the 
first speaker, emphasizing his speech by the vim with 
which he pitched a broken-handled skillet into the 
cupboard—a cupboard made of a wooden box. "May- 
haps you think as I haven’t seen a white woman these 
six months. I’ll be a breakin’ my neck to get to 
thdir camp across there. Well, I will not; they may 
be all very fine, no doubt—folk from the East; but ye 
well know a lot o’ tenderfeet in the bush are a sight 
worse to tak’ the care of than the wild things they’ll 
be tryin’ to hunt. ‘A man’s a fool who stumbles over 
the same stone twice,’ is an old, true say in’, an’ I 
know what I’m talkin’ of. It’s four years this autumn 
since I was down in the Walla Walla country, an’ 

20 



ON scot’s mountain. 


21 


there was a fine party from the East, just as these are; 
an’ they would go up into the Blue Mountains, an’ 
they would have me for a guide; an’ if the Lord’ll 
forgive me for associatin’ with sich a pack o’ lunatics 
for that trip. I’ll never be caught wi’ the same bait 
again.” 

“What did they do to you?” asked the voice, with a 
tmge of amusement in it. 

“To me? They did naught to me but pester me wi’ 
questions of insane devisin’. Scarce a man o’ them 
could tether a beast or lasso one that was astray. 
They had a man servant, a sort o’ flunky, to wait on 
them, and he just sat around like a bump on a log, and 
looked fearsomely for Injuns an’ grizzlies. They 
would palaver until all hours in the night, about the 
scientific causes of all things we came across. Many 
a good laugh I might have had, if I had na been dis¬ 
gusted wi’ the pretenses o’ the poor bodies. Why, they 
knew not a thing but the learnin’ o’ books. They 
were from the East—down East, they said; that is, 
the Southeast, I suppose they meant to say; and their 
flunky said they were well-to-do at home, and very 
learned, the poor fools! Well, Til weary myself wi’ 
none others o’ the same ilk.” 

“You’re getting cranky, Mac, from being too much 
alone;” and the owner of the voice lounged lazily up 
from the seat of the cabin door, and stood looking in 
at the disgusted Scotchman, bending ever so slightly 
a dark, well-sharped head that was taller than the 
cross-piece above the door. 

“Am I, now?” asked the old man, getting up stiffly 
from filling a pan of milk for the cat. “Well, then, 
I have a neighbor across on the Maple range that is 
subject o’ late to the same complaint, but from a wide 



‘22 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


difference o’ reason;” and he nodded his head signifi¬ 
cantly at the man in the door, adding: ‘‘An’ there’s 
a subject for a debate, Jack Genesee, whether loneli¬ 
ness is worse on the disposition than the influence o’ 
wrong company. ” 

Jack Genesee straightened out of his lounging atti¬ 
tude, and stepped back from the door-way with a decis¬ 
ion that would impress a man as meaning business. 

‘‘None o’ that, MacDougall,” he said curtly, drop¬ 
ping his hand with a hillman’s instinct to the belt 
where his revolvers rested. ‘‘I reckon you and I will 
be better friends through minding our own business 
and keeping to our own territory in future;” and whis¬ 
tling to a beautiful brown rnare that was browsing 
close to the cabin, he turned to mount her, when the 
old man crossed the floor quickly and laid a sinewy, 
brown hand on his arm. 

‘‘Bide a bit, Genesee,” he said, his native accent 
always creeping upward in any emotion. ‘‘Friends are 
rare and scarce in this Chinook land. You’re a bit 
hasty in your way, and mayhaps I’m a bit curious in 
mine; but I’ll no let ye leave Davy MacDougall’s 
like that just for the want o’ sayin’ I’m regretful at 
havin’ said more than I should o’ you and yours. I 
canna lose a friend o’ four years for a trifle like 
that.” 

The frankness of the old man’s words made the 
other man drop the bridle and turn back with out¬ 
stretched hand. 

‘‘That’s all right, Mac,” he said heartily; ‘‘say no 
more about it. I am uglier than the d—1 to get along 
with sometimes, and you’re about straight when you 
say I’m a crank; only—well, it’s nobody’s fault but my 
own. ” 


ON SCOT'S MOUNTAIN. 


23 


No, o’ course not,” said MacDougall in a concil¬ 
iatory tone as he went back to his dish-washing at 
the table—the dishes were tin pans and cups, and 
the dish-pan was an iron pot—“to be sure not; but 
the half-breeds are pizen in a man’s cabin, an’ that 
Talapa, wi’ the name that’s got from a prairie wolf 
an’ the Injun de’il, is well called—a full-blood Injun 
is easier to manage, my lad ; an’ then, ” he added, quiz¬ 
zically, “I’m but givin’ ye the lay o’ the land where 
I’ve fought myself, an’ mayhaps got wounded.” 

The “lad,” who was about thirty-five, laughed heart¬ 
ily at this characteristic confession. There was evi¬ 
dently some decided incongruity between the old 
Scotchman’s statement and his quaint housewifery, as 
he wrapped'a cloth reduced to strings around a fork 
and washed out a coffee-pot with the improvised mop. 
Something there was in it that this man Genesee appre¬ 
ciated, and his continued laughter drew the beautiful 
mare again to his sidq, slipping her velvety nose 
close to his ear, and muzzling there like a familiar 
spirit that had a right to share her master’s emotions. 

“All right, Mowitza,” he said in a promising tone; 
“we’ll hit the bush by and by. But old sulky here 
is slinging poisoned arrows at our Kloocheman. We 
can’t stand that, 5^011 know. We don’t like cooking 
our own grub, do we, Mowitza? Shake your head and 
tell him 'halo'' —that^s right. Skooktim Kiuta?i! Skoo- 
kiim, Mowitza!” 

And the man caressed the silky brown head, and 
murmured to her the Indian jargon of endearment and 
praise, and the mare muzzled closer and whinnied an 
understanding of her master; and MacDougall put 
away the last pan, threw a few knots of cedar on the 
bit of fire in the stone fire-place, and came to the door 


24 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


just as the sun, falling back of the western mountains, 
threw a flood of glory about the old cabin of the mount¬ 
aineer. The hill-grass back of it changed from 
uncertain green to spears of amber as the soft Sep¬ 
tember winds stole through it. Away below in the 
valley, the purple gloom of dark spruces was burying 
itself in night’s shadows. Here and there a poison- 
vine flashed back defiance under its crimson banners, 
and again a white-limbed aspen shone like a shapely 
ghost from between lichen-covered bowlders. But 
slowly the gloaming crept upward until the shadow¬ 
line fell at the cabin door, and then up, up, past 
spruce and cedar, past the scrub of the dwarf growths, 
past the invisible line that the snakes will not cross, 
on up to the splintered crest, where the snows glimmer 
in the sunshine, and about which the last rays of the 
sun linger and kiss and fondle, long after a good-bye 
has been given to the world beneath. 

Such was but one of the many recurring vistas of 
beauty to which the dwellers of the northern hills are 
given delight in—if they care to open their eyes and 
see the smile that is glorious, with which earth ever 
responds to the kiss of God. 

MacDougall had seen many of the grand pano¬ 
ramas which day and night on Scot’s mountain give 
one, and he stood in the door unheeding this one. 
His keen eyes, under their shaggy brows, were directed 
to the younger man’s bronzed face. 

“There ye go!” he said, half peevishly; “ye jabber 
Chinook to that Talapa and to the mare until it’s a 
wonder ye know any English at all; an’ when ye be 
goin’ back where ye belong, it’ll be fine, queer times 
ye’ll have with your ways of speech.” 


ON scot’s mountain. 


25 


Genesee only laughed shortly—an Indian laugh, in 
which there is no melody. 

“I don’t reckon I belong anywhere, by this time, 
except in this Chinook region; consequently,” he 
added, looking up in the old man’s interested face, 
“consequently. I’m not likely to be moving anywhere, 
if that’s what you’re trying to find out.” 

MacDougall made a half-dissenting murmur against 
trying to find out anything, but Genesee cut him short 
without ceremony. 

“The fact is, Mac,” he continued; “you are a pre¬ 
cious old galoot—a regular nervous old numbskull. 
You’ve been as restless as a new-caught grizzly ever 
since I went down to Cceur d’Alene, two weeks ago— 
afraid I was going to cut loose from Tamahnous Peak 
and pack my traps and go back to the diggin’s; 
is that it? Don’t lie about it. The whole trip wasn’t 
• worth a good lie, and all it panned out for me was 
empty pockets.” 

“Lord! lad, ye canna mean to say ye lost—" 

“Every d—d red," finished Mr. Genesee compla¬ 
cently. 

“An’ how—” 

“Cards and mixed drinks,” he said, laconically. 
“Angels in the wine-rooms, and a slick individual at 
the table who had a better poker hand than I had. 
How’s that as a trade for six months’ work? How 
does it pan out in the balance with half-breeds?” 

Evidently it staggered MacDougall. “It is no much 
like ye to dissipate, Genesee,” he said, doubtfully. 
“O’course a man likes to try his chance on the chips 
once in a way, and to the kelpies o’ the drinkin’ places 
one must leave a few dollars, but the mixin’ o’ drinks 
or the muddlin’ o’ the brains is no natural to ye; it 


26 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


may be a divarsion after the hill life, but there’s 
many a kind that’s healthier.” 

‘‘You’re a confounded old humbug,”,said Genesee 
coolly; ‘‘you preach temperance to me, and get drunk 
as a fiddler all alone here by yourself—not much 
Scotch in that way of drinking, lean tell 3^011. Hello! 
who’s that?” 

MacDougall leaned forward and peered down the 
path where the sound of a horse’s feet were heard 
coming around the bend. 

‘‘It’s that man o’ Hardy’s cornin’ again about a guide, 
I have na doubt. I’ll send him across Seven-mile Creek 
to Tyee-Kamooks. They can get a Siwash guide from 
him, or they can lose themseTs for all me,” he said, 
grumpily, incited thereto, no doubt, by Genesee’s crit¬ 
icism on his habits. He often grumbled that his 
friend from the Maple range was mighty ‘‘tetchy” about 
his own faults, and mighty cool in his opinions of others. 

A dark, well-built horse came at an easy, swinging 
pace out of the gloom of the spruce boughs and over 
the green sw^ard tow^ard the cabin; his rider, a fair, 
fine-looking fellow, in a ranchman’s buckskin suit, 
touched his hat ever so lightly in salute, a courtesy 
the others' returned, Genesee adding the Chinook 
word that is either salutation or farew^ell, KlaJiowya, 
stranger,” and the old man giving the more English 
speech of ‘‘Good evening; won’t 3^0 light, stranger?” 

‘‘No; obliged to you, but haven’t time. I suppose 
I’m speaking to Mr. MacDougall,” and he took his 
eyes from the tall, dark form of Genesee to address 
his speech to the old trapper. 

‘‘Yes, I’m Davy MacDougall, an’ I give a guess 
you’re from the new sheep ranch that’s located down 
Kootenai Park; you’re one of Hardy’s men,” 


ON scot’s mountain. 


27 


“No; I’m Hardy.” 

‘‘Are ye, now?” queried the old fellow in surprise. 
“I expected to see an older man—only by the cause of 
bearin’ you were married, I suppose. Well, now. I’m 
right glad to meet wi’ a new neighbor—to think of a 
ranch but a bit of ten miles from Scot’s Mountain, 
an’ a white family on it, too! Will ye no’ light an’ 
have a crack at a pipe an’ a glass?” 

Hardy himself was evidently making a much better 
impression on MacDougall than the messenger who 
had come to the cabin in the morning. 

“No, partner, not any for me,” answered the young 
ranchman, but with so pleasant a negative that even 
a Westerner could not but accept graciously such a 
refusal. “I just rode up from camp myself to see you 
about a guide for a small party over into the west 
branch of the Rockies. Ivans, who came to see you 
this morning, tells me that you are disabled your¬ 
self—” 

“Yes; that is, I had a hug of a grizzly two weeks 
back that left the ribs o’ my right side a bit sore; 
but—” 

The old man hesitated; evidently his reluctance to 
act as guide to the poor fools was weakening. This 
specimen of an Eastern man was not at all the style 
of the tourists who had disgusted him so. 

“An’ so I told your man I thought I could na guide 
you,” he continued in a debatable way, at which 
Hardy’s blonde mustache twitched suspiciously, and 
Genesee stooped to fasten a spur that had not needed 
attention before; for the fact was Mac had felt “ower 
cranky” that morning, and the messenger had been a 
stupid fellow who irritated him until he swore by all 
the carpenter’s outfit of a certain workman in Nazareth 


28 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


that'he would be no guide for “weemen folk and ten- 
derfeet” in the hills. His vehemence had caused the 
refusal of Ivans to make a return trip, and Hardy, 
remembering Ivans’ account, was amused, and had an 
idea that the dark, quiet fellow with the musical voice 
was amused as well. 

"Yes,” agreed the stranger; "I understood you 
could not come, but I wanted to ask if you could rec¬ 
ommend an Indian guide. I had Jim Kale engaged—: 
he’s the only white man I know in this region; the 
men on my place are all from south of the Flathead 
country. He sent me word yesterday he couldn’t come 
for a week—confound these squaw men! He’s gone 
to hunt caribou with his squaw’s people, so I brought 
my party so far myself, but am doubtful of the trail 
ahead. One of the ladies is rather nervous about 
Indians, and that prevented me from getting a guide 
from them at first; but if we continue, she must 
accustom herself to Montana surroundings.” 

"That’s the worst o’ the weemen folk when it comes 
to the hills,” broke in MacDougall,‘‘they’ve over easy 
to be frightened at shadows; a root an’ four walls is 
the best stoppin’ place for a’ o’ them.” 

The young ranchman laughed easily. 

"I don’t believe you have known many of our Ken¬ 
tucky women, Mr. MacDougall; they are not hot-house 
plants, by any means.” 

Genesee pushed a wide-brimmed light hat back 
from his face a little, and for the first time joined the 
conversation. 

"A Kentucky party, did you say, sir?” he queried, 
with half-careless interest. 

“Yes,” said Hardy, turning toward him; "relatives 
of mine from back East, and I wanted to give them a 


ON scot’s mountain. 


29 


taste of Montana hill life, and a little hunting. But 
I can’t go any farther into the hills alone, especially 
as there are three ladies in the party; and a man can’t 
take many risks when he has them to consider." 

"That’s so,” said Genesee with brief sympathy; 
"big gang?” 

"No—only six of us. My sister and her husband, 
and a cousin, a young lady, are the strangers. Then 
one of the men off my ranch who came to look after 
the pack-mules, and my wife and self. I have an 
extra horse for a guide if I can pick one up.” 

"I shouldn’t be surprised if you could,” said Gen¬ 
esee reflectively; "the woods are full of them, if you 
want Injun guides, and if you don’t—well, it don’t 
seem the right thing to let visitors leave the country 
disappointed, especially ladies, and I reckon I might 
take charge of your outfit for a week or so." 

MacDougall nearly dropped his pipe in his surprise 
at the offer. 

"Well, I’ll be—” he began; but Genesee turned on 
him. 

"What’s the matter with that?” he asked, looking 
at Mac levelly, with a glance that said: "Keep your 
mouth shut.” "If I want to turn guide and drop dig¬ 
ging in that hill back there, why shouldn’t I? It’ll 
be the ‘divarsion’ you were suggesting a little while 
back; and if Mr. Hardy wants a guide, give me a rec¬ 
ommend, can’t you?” 

"Do you know the country northwest of here?” asked 
Hardy eagerly. It was plain to be seen he was 
pleased at his "And. ” "Do you live here in the Chinook 
country? You may be a neighbor of mine, but I haven’t 
the pleasure of knowing your name.” 

"That’s Mac’s fault,” said the other fellow coolly; 


30 


TOLD IN THK HILLS. 


“he’s master of ceremonies in these diggin’s, and has 
forgotten his business. They call me Genesee Jack 
mostly, and I know the Kootenai hills a little.” 

“Indeed, then, he does, Mr. Hardy,” said MacDou- 
gall, finding his voice. “Ye’ll find no Siwash born 
on the hills who knows them better than does Gen¬ 
esee, only he’s been bewitched like, by picks and 
shovels an’ a gulch in the Maple range, for so long it’s 
a bit strange to see him actin’ as guide; but you’re a 
lucky man to be gettin’ him, Mr. Hardy, I’ll tell ye 
that much.” 

“I am willing to believe it,” said Hardy frankly. 
“Could you start at once with us, in the morning?” 

“I reckon so.” 

“I will furnish you a good horse,” began the ranch¬ 
man; but Genesee interrupted, shaking his head with 
a gesture of dissent. 

“No, I think not,” he said in the careless, musical 
voice that yet could be so decided in its softness; and 
he whistled softly, as a cricket chirrups, and the brown 
mare came to him with long, cat-like movements of 
the slender limbs, dropping her head to his shoulder. 

“This bit of horse-hesh is good enough for me,” he 
said, slipping a long, well-shaped hand over the silky 
cheek; “an’ where I go, Mowitza goes—eh, pet?” 

The mare whinnied spftly as acknowledgment of 
the address, and Hardy noticed with admiration the 
fine points in her sinewy, supple frame. 

“Mowitza,” he repeated. “That in Chinook means 
the deer, does it not—or the elk; which is it? I 
haven’t been here long enough to pick up much of the 
jargon.” 

“Well, then, ye’ll be bearin’ enough of it from 
Genesee,” broke in MacDougall. “He’ll be forget- 


31 


ON SCO'l’s MOUNTAIN. 

tin’ his native language in it if he lives here five years 
longer; an’—” 

“There, you’ve said enough,’’ suggested Genesee. 
“After giving a fellow a recommend for solid work, 

I. 

don’t spoil it by an account of his fancy accomplish¬ 
ments. You’re likely to overdo it. Yes,Mowitza means a 
deer, and this one has earned her name. We’ll both 
be down at your camp b}^ sun up to-morrow; will that 
do?” 

“It certainly will,” answered Hardy in a tone of 
satisfaction. “And the folks below will be mighty 
glad to know a white man is to go with us. Jim Kale 
rather made them doubtful of squaw men, and my sis¬ 
ter is timid about Indians as steady company through 
the hills. I must get back and give them the good 
news. At sun-up to-morrow, Mr. Genesee?” 

“At sun-up to-morrow. ” 


32 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER II. 

AS THE SUN ROSE. 

Do you know the region of the Kootenai that lies 
in the northwest corner of a most northwestern State— 
where the “bunch-grass” of the grazing levels bends 
even now under a chance wild stallion and his harem 
of silken-coated mates; where fair upland “parks” 
spread back from the cool rush of the rivers; where the 
glittering peaks of the mountains glow at the rise and 
fall of night like the lances of a guard invincible, that 
lift their grand silence as a barrier against the puny 
strife of the outside world? 

Do you know what it is to absorb the elastic breath 
of the mountains at the awakening of day? To stand 
far above the levels and watch the faint amethystine 
peaks catch one by one their cap of gold Hung to them 
from an invisible sun? To feel the blood thrill with 
the fever of an infinite possession as the eyes lookout 
alone over a seemingly creatureless scene of vastness, 
of indefiniteness of all vague promise, in the growing 
light of day? To feel the cool crispness of the heights, 
tempered by the soft “Chinook ’ winds? To feel the 
fresh wet dews of the morning on your hands and on 
your face, and to know them in a dim way odorous— 
odorous with the virginity of the hills—of the day dawn, 
with all the sweet things of form or feeling that the 
new day brings into new life? 

A girl on Scot’s Mountain seemed to breathe in all 
that intoxication of the hill country, as she stood on 





AS THE SUN ROSE. 


33 


a little level, far above the smoke of the camp-fire, 
and watched the glowing, growing lights on the far 
peaks. A long time she had stood there, her riding- 
dress gathered up above the damp . grass, her cap in 
her hand, and her brown hair tossing in a bath of the 
winds. Twice a shrill whistle had called her to the 
camp hidden by the spruce boughs, but she had only 
glanced down toward the valley, shc^k her head 
mutinously, and returned to the study of her panorama; 
for it seemed so entirely her own—displaying its 
beauties for her sole surprisal—that it seemed dis¬ 
courteous to ignore it or descend to lower levels during 
that changing carnival of color. So she just nodded 
a negative to her unseen whistler below, determined 
not to leave, even at the risk of getting the leavings 
of the breakfast—not a small item to a young woman 
with a healthy, twenty-year-old appetite. 

But something at last distracted that wrapt atten¬ 
tion. What was it? She heard no sound, had noticed 
no movement but the stir of the wind in the leaves 
and the grasses, yet she shrugged her shoulders with a 
twitchy movement of being disturbed and not know¬ 
ing by what. Then she gathered her skirts a little 
closer in her hand and took a step or so backward in 
an uncertain way, and a moment later clapped the cap 
on her tumbled hair, and turned around, looking square 
into the face of a stranger not a dozen steps from her, 
who was watching her with rather sombre, curious 
eyes. Their steady gaze accounted for the mesmeric 
disturbance, but her quick turn gave her revenge, for 
he flushed to the roots of his dark hair as she caught 
him watching her like that, and he did not speak just 
at first. He lifted his wide-brimmed hat, evidently 
with the intention of greeting her, but his tongue was 
S 


34 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


a little unruly, and he only looked at her, and she at 
him. 

They stood so in reality only a flash of seconds, 
though it seemed a continuous stare of minutes to 
both; then the humorous side of the situation appealed 
to the girl, and her lips twitched ever so slightly as 
she recovered her speech first and said demurely: 

“Good morning, sir.’’ 

“How are you?” he returned; and having regained 
the use of his tongue, he added, in an easier way: 
“YouHl excuse me, lady, if I sort of scared you?” 

“Oh, no, I was not at all startled,” she answered 
hastily, “only a little surprised.” 

“Yes,” he agreed, “so was I. That’s why I stood 
there a-staring at you—couldn’t just make out if you 
was real or a ghost, though I never before saw even 
the ghost of a white woman in this region.” 

“And you' were watching to see if I would vanish 
into thin air like a Macbeth witch, were you?” she 
asked quizzically. 

He might be on his native heath and she an inter¬ 
loper, but she was much the most at her ease— 
evidently a young lady of adaptability and consider¬ 
able self-possession. His eyes had grown wavering 
and uncertain in their glances, and that flush made 
him still look awkward, and she wondered if Mac¬ 
beth’s witches were not unheard-of individuals to him, 
and she noticed with those direct, comprehensive eyes 
that a sui-t of buckskin can be wonderfully becoming 
to tall, lazy-looking men, and that wide, light som¬ 
breros have quite an artistic effect as a frame for 
dark hair and eyes; and through that decision she heard 
him say: 

“No. I wasn’t watching you lor anything special. 





AS THE SUN ROSE. 


35 


only if you was a real woman, I reckoned you were 
prospecting around looking for the trail, and—and so 
I just waited to see, knowing you were a stranger.” 

‘‘And is that all you know about me?” she asked mis¬ 
chievously. ‘‘I know much more than that about you. ” 

‘‘How much?” 

‘‘Oh, I know you’re just coming from Davy Mac- 
Dougall’s, and you are going to Hardy’s camp to act 
as commander-in-chief of the eastern tramps in it, 
and your name is Mr. Jack Genesee^—and—and—that 
is all.” 

‘‘Yes, I reckon it is,” he agreed, looking at her in 
astonishment. ‘‘It’s a good deal, considering you never 
saw me before, and I don’t know—” 

‘‘And you don’t know who I am,” she rejoined easily. 
‘‘Well, I can tell you that, too. I’m a wanderer 
from Kentucky, prospecting, as you would call it, for 
something new in this Kootenai country of yours, and 
my name is Rachel Hardy.” 

“That’s a good, square statement,” he smiled, put at 
his ease by the girl’s frankness. “So you’re one of 
the party I’m to look after on this cultus corrie?" 

“Yes, I’m one of them—Cousin Hardy says the most 
troublesome of the lot, because I always want to be 
doing just the things I’ve no business to;” then she 
looked at him and laughed a little. “I tell you this 
at once,” she added, “so you will know what a task 
you have undertaken, and if you’re timid, you might 
back out before it’s too late—are you timid?” 

“Do I look it?” 

“N—noj” but she didn’t give him the scrutiny she 
had at first—only a swift glance and a little hurry to 
her next question: “What was that queer term you 
used when speaking of our trip—cul—cultus?” 


3^ 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Oh, cultus corrie! That’s Chinook for pleasure 
ride.” 

“Is it? What queer words they have. Cousin Harry 
was telling me it was a mongrel language, made 
up of Indian, French, English, and any stray words 
from other tongues that were adjustable to it. Is it 
hard to learn?” 

“I think not—I learned it.” 

“What becoming modesty in that statement! ” she 
laughed quizzically. “Come, Mr. Jack Genesee, sup¬ 
pose we begin our cultus corrie by eating breakfast 
together; they’ve been calling me for the past half- 
hour. ” 

He whistled for Mowitza, and Miss Rachel Hardy 
recognized at once the excellence of this silken-coated 
favorite. 

“Mowitza; what a musical name!” she remarked as 
she followed the new guide to the trail leading down 
the mountain. “It sounds Russian—is it?” 

“No; another Chinook word—look out there; these 
stones are bad ones to balance on, they’re too round, 
and that gully is too deep below to make it safe.” 

“I’m all right,” she announced in answer to the 
warning as she amused herself by hopping bird-like 
from one round, insecure bowlder to another, and send¬ 
ing several bounding and crashing into the gully that 
cut deep into the heart of the mountain. “I can man¬ 
age to keep my feet on your hills, even if I can’t speak 
their language. By the way, I suppose you don’t care 
to add Professor of Languages to your other titles, 
do you, Mr. Jack Genesee?” 

“I reckon I’m in the dark now. Miss, sort of blind¬ 
fold—can’t catch onto what you mean.” 

“Oh, I was just thinking I might take up the study 


AS THE SUN ROSE. 


37 


of Chinook while out here, and go back home over¬ 
whelming the natives by my novel accomplishment;” 
and she laughed so merrily at the idea, and looked so 
quizzically at Genesee Jack’s dark, serious face, that 
he smiled in sympathy. 

They had only covered half the trail leading down 
to the camp, but already, through the slightly strange 
and altogether unconventional meeting, she found her¬ 
self making remarks to him with the freedom of a 
long-known chum, and rather enjoying the curious, puz¬ 
zled look with which he regarded her when she was 
quick enough to catch him looking at her at all. 

“Stop a moment,” she said, just as the trail plunged 
from the open face of the mountain into the shadow 
of spruce and cedar. “You see this every morning, I 
suppose, but it is a grand treat to me. See how the 
light has crept clear down to the level land now. 1 
came up here long before there was a sign of the sun, 
for I knew the picture would be worth it. Isn’t it 
beautiful? ” 

Her eyes, alight with youth and enthusiasm, were 
turned for a last look at the sun-kissed country below, 
to which she directed his attention with one bare, 
outstretched hand. 

“Yes, it is,” he agreed; but his eyes were not on the 
valley of the Kootenai, but on the girl’s face. 


38 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER III. 

WHAT IS A SQUAW MAN? 

/ 

“Rache, I want you to stop it.” The voice had an 
insinuating tone, as if it would express “will you sljop 
it? ” 

The speaker was a chubby, matronly figure, enthroned 
on a hassock of spruce boughs, while the girl stretched 
beside her was drawing the fragrant spikes of green, 
bit by bit, over closed eyes and smiling; only the 
mouth and chin could be seen under the green veil, 
but the corners of the mouth were widening ever so 
little. Smiles should engender content; they are 
supposed to be a voucher of sweet thoughts, but at 
times they have a tendency to bring out all that is 
irritable in human nature, and the chubby little woman 
noted that growing smile with rising impatience. 

‘T am not jesting," she continued, as if there might 
be a doubt on that question; ‘‘and I wish you would 
stop it.” 

‘‘You haven’t given it a name yet. Say, Clara, 
that sounds like an invitation to drink, doesn’t it?— 
a western invitation.” 

But her fault-finder was not going to let her escape 
the subject like that. 

‘‘I am not sure it has a name,” she said, curtly. ‘‘No 
one seems to know whether it is Genesee Jack or 
Jack Genesee, or whether both are not aliases—in fact, 
the most equivocal sort of companion for a young 
girl over these hills.” 



WHAT IS A SQUAW MAN? 


39 


“What a tempest you raise about nothing, Clara,” 
said the girl good-humoredly; “one would think that 
I was in hourly danger of being kidnaped by Mr. 
.Genesee Jack—the name is picturesque in sound, and 
suits him, don’t you think so? But I am sure the 
poor man is quite harmless, and stands much more in 
awe of me than I do of him.’' 

‘‘I believe you, ” assented her cousin tartly. “I never 
knew you to stand in awe of anything masculine, from 
your babyhood. You are a born flirt, for all your 
straightforward, independent ways. Oh, I know you. ” 

“So I hear you say,” answered Miss Hardy, peering 
through the screen of cedar sprays, her eyes shining a 
little wickedly from their shadows. “You have a hard 
time of it with me, haven’t you, dear? By the way, 
Clara, who prompted you to this lecture—Hen?” 

“No, Hen did not; neither he nor Alec seem to have 
eyes or ears for anything but deer and caribou; they 
are constantly airing their new-found knowledge of the 
country. I had to beg Alec to come to sleep last 
night, or I believe they would .have gossiped until 
morning. The one redeeming point in your Genesee 
Jack is that he doesn’t talk.” 

“He isn’t my Genesee Jack,” returned the girl; “but 
he does talk, and talk well, I think. You do not 
know him, that is all, and you never will, with those 
starchy manners of yours. Not talk! —why, he has taught 
me a lot of Chinook, and told me all about a miner’s 
life and a hunter’s. Not talk!—I’ve only known him 
a little over a week, and he has told me his life for 
ten years back.” 

“Yes, with no little encouragement from you, I’ll 
wager. ” 

“Well, my bump of curiosity was enlarged some- 



40 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


what as to his life," acknowledged the girl. "You see 
he has such an unusual personality, unusually interest¬ 
ing, I mean. I never knew any man like him in the East. 
Why, he only needs a helmet instead of the sombrero, 
and armor instead of the hunting suit, and he would 
make an ideal Launcelot. ’’ 

"Good gracious, Rache! do stop raving over the 
man, or I shall certainly have Hen discharge him and 
take you back to civilization at once.” 

"But perhaps I won’t go back—what then; and per¬ 
haps Hen could not be able to see your reason for 
getting rid of a good guide," said the girl coolly, know¬ 
ing she had the upper hand of the controversy; “and 
as to the raving, you know I never said a word about 
him until you began to find fault with everything, 
from the cut of his clothes to the name he gives, and 
then—well, a fellow must stand up for his friends, you 
know. ” 

"Of course a fellow must," agreed someone back 
of them, and the young ranchman from the East came 
down under the branches from the the camp-fire just 
kindled; "that is a manly decision, Rache, and does 
you credit. But what’s the argument?" 

"Oh,. Clara thinks I am taking root too quickly in 
the soil of loose customs out here," explained the 
girl, covering the question, yet telling nothing. 

"She doesn’t approve of our savage mode of life, 
does she?" he queried, sympathetically; "and she 
hasn’t seen but a suggestion of its horrors yet. Too 
bad Jim Kale did not come; she could have made the 
acquaintance of a specimen that would no doubt be 
of interest to her—a squaw man with all his native 
charms intact.” 

"Hen,” said the girl, rising on her elbow, “I wish 


WHAT IS A SQUAW MAN? 


41 


you would tell me just what you mean by a ‘squaw 
man;’ is it a man who buys squaws, or sells them, or 
eats them, or—well, what does he do?” 

‘‘He marries them—sometimes,” was the laconic 
reply, as if willing to drop the question. But Miss 
Rache, when interested, was not to be thrust aside 
until satisfied. 

‘‘Is that all?” she persisted; ‘‘is he a sort of Mor¬ 
mon, then—an Indian Mormon? And how many do 
they marry?” 

‘‘I never knew them to marry more than one,” haz¬ 
arded Mr. Hardy. “But, to tell the truth, I know 
very little about their customs; I understand they 
are generally a worthless class of men, and the term 
‘squaw man’ is a stigma, in a way—the most of 
them are rather ashamed of it, I believe.” 

‘‘I don’t see why,” began Rache. 

‘‘No, I don’t suppose you do,” broke in her cousin 
Hardy with a relative’s freedom, ‘‘and it is not 
necessary that you should; just confine your curiosity 
to other phases of Missoula County that are open for 
inspection, and drop the squaw men.” 

‘‘I haven’t picked any of them up yet,” returned 
the girl, rising to her feet, ‘‘but I will the first chance 
I get; and I give you fair warning, you might as well 
tell me all I want to know, for I will find out." 

‘‘I’ll wager she will,” sighed Clara, as the girl 
walked away to where their traps and sachels were 
stacked under a birch tree, and while she turned things 
topsy-turvy looking for something, she nodded her 
head sagaciously over her shoulder at the two left 
behind; ‘‘to be sure she will—she is one of the girls 
who are always stumbling on just the sort of knowl¬ 
edge that should be kept from them; and this question 


42 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


of your horrid social system out here—well, she will 
know all about it if she has to interview Ivans or your 
guide to find out; and I suppose it is an altogether 
objectionable topic?” 

The intonation of the last words showed quite as 
much curiosity as the girl had declared, only it was 
more carefully veiled. 

‘‘Oh, I don’t know as it is," returned her brother; 
‘‘except under—well—^circumstances. But, someway, a 
white man is mightily ashamed to have it known that 
he has a squaw wife. Ivans told me that many of 
them would as soon be shot as to have it known back 
East where they came from." 

‘‘Yes,” remarked a gentleman who joined them dur¬ 
ing this speech, and whose brand-new hunting suit 
bespoke the "got-up-regardless" tourist; ‘‘it is strange, 
don’t you think so? Why, back East we would hear 
of such a marriage and think it most lomantic; but 
out here—well, it seems hard to convince a Westerner 
that there is any romance about an Indian." 

‘‘And I don’t wonder, Alec, do you?" asked Mrs. 
Houghton, turning to her husband as if sure of sym¬ 
pathy from him; ‘‘all the squaws we have seen are 
horribly slouchy, dirty creatures. I have yet to see 
the Indian maiden of romance.” 

‘‘In their original state they may have possessed all 
the picturesque dignities and chivalrous character 
ascribed to them,” answered Mr. Houghton, doubt¬ 
fully; ‘‘but if so, their contact with the white race 
has caused a vast degeneration.” 

‘‘Which it undoubtedly has,” returned Hardy, decid¬ 
edly. ‘‘Mixing of races always has that effect, and 
in the Indian country it takes a most decided turn. 
The Siwash or Indian men of this territory may be 



WHAT tS A SQUAW MAN? 


43 


a thieving, whisky-drinking lot, but the chances are 
that nine-tenths of the white men who marry among 
them become more worthless and degraded than the 
Indian. ” 

“There are, I suppose, exceptions,” remarked 
Houghton. 

“Well, there may be,” answered Hardy; “but they 
are not taken into consideration, and that is why a 
man dislikes to be classed among them. There is 
something of the same feeling about it that there is 
back home about a white man marrying a negro.” 

“Then why do they do it, if they are ashamed of 
it?”, queried Mrs. Houghton with logical directness. 

“Well, I suppose because there are no white 
women here for them to marry,” answered her brother, 
“and Indians or half-breeds are always to be found.” 

“If ministers are not,” added Houghton. 

“Exactly! ” 

“Oh, good gracious!” ejaculated the little matron 
in a tone of disgust; “no wonder they are ashamed— 
even the would-be honest ones are likely to incur 
suspicion, because, as you say, the exceptions are too 
few for consideration. A truly delightful spot you 
have chosen; the moral atmosphere would be a good 
field for a missionary, I should say—yet you would 
come here.” 

“Yes, and I am going to stay, too,” said Hardy, 
in answer to this sisterly tirade. “We see or know 
but little of those poor devils or their useless lives— 
only we know by hearing that such a state of things 
exists. But as for quitting the country because of 
that—well, no, I could not be bought back to the East 
after knowing this glorious climate. Why, Tillie 
and I have picked out a tree to be buried under—a 


44 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


magnificent fellow that grows on the plateau above our 
house—just high enough to view the Four-mile Park 
from. She is as much in love with the freedom of 
these hills as I am.’’ 

“Poor child!” said his sister, commiseratinglyj “to 
think of her being exiled in that park, twenty miles 
from a white woman!—didn’t you say it was twenty?’’ 

“Yes,’’ and her brother leaned his back against the 
tree and smiled down at her; “it’s twenty and a half, 
and the white woman whom you see at the end of the 
trip keeps a tavern—runs it herself, and sells the 
whisky that crosses the bar with an insinuating man¬ 
ner that is all her own. Pve heard that she can sling 
an ugly fist in a scrimmage. She is a great favorite 
with the boys; the pet name they have for her is 
Holland 'Jin.’’ 

“Ugh! Horrible! And she—she allows them to call 
her so?’’ 

“Certainly; you see it is a trade-mark for the house; 
her real name is Jane Holland.’’ 

“Holland Jin!” repeated his sister with a shudder. 
“Tillie,come here! Have you heard this? Hen has been 
telling me of your neighbor, Holland Jin. How do 
you expect to live always in this out-of-the-wa}^ 
place?” 

Out from under the branches where their camp had 
just been located came Tillie, a charmingly, plain 
little wife of less than a year—just her childishly 
curved red lips and her soft dark eyes to give attract¬ 
iveness to her tanned face. 

“Yes, I have heard of her,” she said in a slow, half¬ 
shy way; “she can’t be very—very—nice; but one of 
the stockmen said she was good-hearted if anyone was 
sick or needed help, so she can’t be quite bad.” 


WHAT IS A SQUAW MAN? 


45 


“You dear little soul,” said her sister-in-law fondly; 
“you would have a good word to say for anyone; but 
you must allow it will be awfully dismal out here 
without any lady friends.” 

“You are here, and Rache. ” 

“Yes, but wh-en Rache and I have gone back to civil¬ 
ization? ” 

The dark eyes glanced at the speaker and then at 
the tall young ranchman. “Hen will be here always. ” 

“Oh, you insinuating little Quaker!” laughed the 
older woman; “one would think you were married 
yesterday and the honeymoon only begun, would 
you not, Alec? I wonder if these Chinook winds 
have a tendency to softening the brain—have they,Hen? 
If so, you and Tillie are in a dangerous country. 
What was it you shot this time, Alec—a pole-cat or a 
flying-squirrel? Yes, I’ll go and see for myself." 

And she followed her husband across the open space 
of the plateau to where Ivans was cutting slices of 
venison from the latest addition to their larder; 
while Hardy stood smiling dov/n, half amusedly, at the 
flushed face of the little wife. 

“Are you afraid of softening of the brain?” he asked 
in a tone of concern. She shook her head, but did not 
look up. She was easily teased, as much so about 
her husband as if he was still a wooer. And to have 
shown her fondness in his sister’s eyes! What sister 
could ever yet see the reason for a sister-in-law’s blind 
adoration? 

“Are you going to look on yourself as a martyr after 
the rest have left you here in solitary confinement 
with me as a jailer?” 

Another shake of the head, and the drooped eyes 
were raised for one swift glance. 


4b 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Because I was thinking,” continued her tormentor 
—“I was thinking that if the exile, as Clara calls 
it, would be too severe on you, I might, if it was for 
your own good—I might send you back with the rest to 
Kentucky. ” 

Then there was a raising of the head quick enough, 
and a tempestuous flight across the space that separated 
them, and a flood of remonstrances that ended in 
happy laughter, a close clasp of arms, and—yes, in 
spite of the girl who was standing not very far away— 
a kiss; and Hardy circled his wife’s shoulders with 
his long arms, and, with a glance of laughing defiance 
at his cousin, drew her closer and followed in the 
wake of the Houghtons. 

The girl had deliberately stood watching that little 
scene with a curious smile in her eyes, a semi-cynical 
gaze at the lingering fondness of voice and touch. 
There was no envy in her face, only a sort of good- 
natured disbelief. Her cousin Clara always averred 
that Rachel was too masculine in spirit to ever under¬ 
stand the little tendernesses that burnish other wor len’s 
lives. 



BANKED FIRES. 


47 


CHAPTER IV. 

BANKED FIRES.^ 

She did not look masculine, however, as she stood 
there, slender, and brown from the tan ’of the winds; 
the unrul}^, fluffy hair clustering around a face and 
caressing a neck that was essentially womanly in 
every curve; only, slight as the form seemed, one could 
find strong points in the depth of chest and solid look 
of the shoulders; a veteran of the roads would say 
those same points in a bit of horse-flesh would denote 
capacity for endurance, and, added to the strong-look¬ 
ing hand and the mockery latent in the level eyes, they 
completed a personality that she had all her life 
heard called queer. And with a smile that reflected 
that term, she watched those two married lovers stroll 
arm in arm to where the freshly-killed deer lay. 
Glancing at the group, she missed the face of their 
guide, a face she had seen much of since that sunrise 
in the Kootenai. Across the sward a little way the 
horses were picketed, and Mowitza’s graceful head 
was bent in search for the most luscious clusters of 
the bunch-grass; but Mowitza’s master was not to 
be seen. She had heard him speak, the night before, 
of signs of grizzlies around the shank of the mount¬ 
ain, and wondered if he had started on a lone hunt 
for them. She was conscious of a half-resentful feel¬ 
ing that he had not given her a chance of going along, 
when he knew she wanted to see everything possible in 
this out-of-door life in the hills. 


48 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


So, in some ill-humor, she walked aimlessly across 
the grass where Clara’s lecture on the conventionali¬ 
ties had been delivered; and pushing ahead under the 
close-knit boughs, she was walking away from the 
rest, led by that spirit of exploration that comes 
naturally to one in a wilderness, and parting a wide- 
spreading clump of laurel, was about to wedge her way 
through it, when directly on the other side of that 
green wall she saw Genesee, whom she had supposed 
was alone after a grizzly. Was he asleep? He was 
lying face downward under the woven green roof that 
makes twilight in the cedars. The girl stopped, 
about to retrace her steps quietly, when a sudden 
thought made her look at him more closely, with a 
devout prayer in her heart that he was asleep, and 
asleep soundly; for her quick eyes had measured the 
short distance between that resting-place and the 
scene of conversation but a few minutes ago. She tried 
wildly to remember what Clara had said about him, 
and, most of all, what answers Clara had received. 
She had no doubt said things altogether idiotic, just 
from a spirit of controversy, and here the man had 
been within a few feet of them all the time! She 
felt like saying something desperately, expressively 
masculine; but instead of easing her feelings in that 
manner, she was forced to complete silence and a 
stealthy retreat. 

Was he asleep, or only resting? The uncertainty was 
aggravating. And a veritable Psyche, she could not 
resist the temptation of taking a last, sharp look. She 
leaned forward ever so little to ascertain, and thus 
lost her chance of retreating unseen; for among 
the low-hanging branches was one on which there were 
no needles of green—a bare, straggling limb with twigs 


BANKED FIRES. 


49 


like the fingers of black skeletons. In bending for¬ 
ward, she felt one of them fasten itself in her hair; 
tugging blindly and wildly, at last she loosened their 
impish clutches, and left as trophy to the tree some 
erratic, light-brown hair and—she gave up in despair as 
she saw it—her cap, that swung back and forward, 
just out of reach. 

If it only staid there for the present, she would 
not care so much; but it was so tantalizingly inse¬ 
cure, hanging by a mere thread, and almost directly 
above the man. Fascinated by the uncertainty, she 
stood still. Would it stay where it was? Would it 
fall? 

The silent query was soon answered—it fell, dropped 
lightly down on the man’s shoulder, and he, raising 
his head from the folded arms, showed a face from 
which the girl took a step back in astonishment. He 
had not been asleep, then; but to the girl’s eyes he 
looked like a man who had been either fighting or 
weeping. She had never seen a face so changed, 
telling so surely of some war of the emotions. He 
lay in the shadow, one hand involuntarily lifting 
itself as a shade for his eyes while he looked up at her. 

“Well!” The tone was gruff,almost hoarse; it was as 
unlike him as his face at that moment, and Rachel 
Hardy wondered, blankly, if he was drunk—it was about 
the onl}^ reasonable explanation she could give herself. 
But even with it she could not be satisfied; there 
was too much quick anger at the thought—not anger 
alone, but a decided feeling of disappointment in the 
man. To be sure, she had been influenced by no one to 
have faith in him; still—someway— 

“Are you—are you ill, Mr. Genesee?" she asked at 
last. 


4 


50 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Not that I know of.” 

What a bear the man was' she thought; what need 
was there to answer a civil question in that tone. It 
made her just antagonistic enough not to care so 
much if his feelings had been hurt by Clara’s remarks, 
and she asked bluntly: 

“Have you been here long?” 

“Some time.” 

“Awake?” 

“Well, yes,” and he made a queer sound in his 
throat, half grunt, half laugh; “I reckon I—was— 
awake. ” 

The slow, half-bitter words impelled her to con- ' 
tinue: 

“Then you—you heard the—the conversation over 
there?” 

He looked at her, and she thought his eyes were 
pretty steady for a drunken man’s. 

“Well, yes,” he repeated, “I reckon—I—heard it.” 

All her temper blazed up at the deliberate confes-- 
sion. If he had seemed embarrassed or wounded, she • 
would have felt sorry; but this stoicism angered her, 
as the idea of drunkenness had done—perhaps because 
each set herself and her feelings aside—I do not know, 
but that may have been the reason; she was a woman. 

“And you deliberately lay here and listened,” she 
burst out wrathfully, “and let us say all sorts of 
things, no doubt, when it was your place as a gentle¬ 
man to let us know you were here? I—I would not 
have taken you for an eavesdropper, Mr. Jack Gen¬ 
esee!” And with this tirade she turned to make her 
way back through the laurel. 

“Here!” 

She obeyed the command in his voice, thinking, as 


BANKED FIRES. 


51 


she did so, how quick the man was to get on his feet. 
In a stride he was beside her, his hand outstretched 
to stop her; but it was not necessary, his tone had 
done that, and he thrust both hands into the pockets 
of his hunting coat. 

“Stop just where you are for a minute. Miss,” he 
said, looking down at her; “and don’t be so infernally 
quick about making a judge and jury of yourself—and 
you look just now as if you’d like to be sheriff, too. 
I make no pretense of being a gentleman of culture, 
so you can save yourself the trouble of telling me the 
duty of one. What little polish I ever had has been 
knocked off in ten years of hill life out here. I’m 
not used to talking to ladies, and my ways may seem 
mighty rough to you ; but I want you to know I wasn’t 
listening—I would have got away if I could, but I 
—was paralyzed. ’’ 

“What?” Her tone was coldly unbelieving. 

His manner was collected enough now. He 
was talking soberly, if rather brusquely; but—that 
strange look in his face at first? and the eyes that 
burned as if for the lack of tears?—those were things 
not yet understood. 

“Yes,” he continued, “that’s what it was, I reckon. 
I heard what she said; she is right, too, when she says 
I’m no fit company for a lady. I hadn’t thought of 
it before, and it started me to thinking—thinking 
fast—and I just lay still there and forgot everything 
onlyxthem words; and then I heard the things you 
said—mighty kind they were, too, but I wasn’t think¬ 
ing of them much—only trying to see myself as peo¬ 
ple of your sort would see me if they knew me as I do, 
and I concluded I would pan out pretty small; then 
I heard something else that was good for me, but bitter 


52 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


to take. And then—” His voice grew uncertain; he 
was not looking at the girl, but straight ahead of him, 
his features softened, his eyes half closed at some 
memory. 

“And then what, Genesee?” She felt a little sorry 
for him as he was speaking—a little kinder since he 
had owned his own unworthiness. A touch of remorse 
even led her to lay a couple of fingers on the sleeve 
of his coat, to remind him of her presence as she 
repeated: “And then?” 

He glanced down at the fingers;—the glance made 
the hand drop to her side very quickly—and then he 
coolly brushed his sleeve carefully with the other 
hand. 

“Then for a little bit I was let get a glimpse of 
what heaven on earth might mean to a man, if he 
hadn’t locked the door against himself and dropped 
into hell instead. This is a blind trail Pm leading 
on, is it. Miss?—all tso-lo. Well, it don’t matter; you 
would have to drop into a pretty deep gulch yourself 
before you could understand, and you’ll never do 
that—the Almighty forbid!” he added, energetically. 
“You belong to the mountains and the high places, 
and you’re too sure-footed not to stay there. You can 
go now. I only stopped you to say that my listening 
mightn’t have been in as mean a spirit as you 
judged. Judging things you don’t understand is bad 
business anyway—let it alone.” 

And with that admonition he turned away, striding 
through the laurel growth and spruce, and on down 
the mountain, leaving Miss Hardy feeling more lect¬ 
ured and astonished than she had often been in her 
life. 

“Well, upon my word!” 


BANKED FIRES. 


53 


It is not an original exclamation—she was not 
equal to any original thought just then; but for some 
time after his disappearance that was all she could 
find to say, and she said it standing still there, bare¬ 
headed and puzzled; then, gathering up her faculties 
and her skirts, she made her way back through the low 
growth, and sat down where Clara and herself had 
sat only a little while before. 

“And Clara says he don’t talk!" she soliloquized, 
with a faint smile about her lips. “Not talk!—he did 
not give me a chance to say a word, even if I had 
wanted to. I feel decidedly ‘sat upon,'as Hen would 
say, and I suppose I deserved it.” 

Then she missed her cap, and went to look for it; but 
it was gone. She remembered seeing it in his hand; 
he must have forgotten and taken it with him. Then 
she sat down again, and all the time his words, and 
the way he had said them, kept ringing in her head— 
“Judging things you don’t understand is bad business.” 

Of course he was right; but it seemed strange for 
her to be taken to task by a man like that on such a 
subject—an uncouth miner and hunter in the Indian 
hills. But was he quite uncouth? While he made her 
stop and listen, his earnestness had overleaped that 
slurred manner of speech that belongs to the ignorant 
of culture. His words had been clearer cut. There 
had been the ring of finished steel in his voice, not 
the thud of iron in the ore, and it had cut clear a 
path of revelations. The man, then, could do more than 
ride magnificently, and look a Launcelot in buckskin— 
he could think—how deeply and wildly had been 
shown by the haggard face she had seen. But the 
cause of it? Even his disjointed explanation had 
given her no clue. 


54 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


" Tso-lo," she thought, repeating the Chinook word 
he had used; “that means to lose one’s way—to wan¬ 
der in the dark. Well, he was right. That is what 
I am doing; ” and then she laughed half mockingly at 
herself as she added: “And Mr. Jack Genesee has 
started me on the path—and started me bare-headed. 
Oh, dear, what a muddle! I wonder where my cap is, 
and I wonder where the man went to, and I wonder—I 
wonder what he meant by a glimpse of heaven. I 
haven’t seen any signs of it.” 

But she had seen it—seen it and laughed mock¬ 
ingly, unbelievingly, while the man had by the sight 
been touched into a great heart-ache of desolation. 
And yet it was a commonplace thing they had seen: 
only two lives bound together by the wish of their 
hearts and a ring of wedding—an affection so honest 
that its fondness could be frankly shown to the world. 

■$(i * * :jc ^ 

That evening Genesee came back to camp looking 
tired, and told Ivans there was a grizzly waiting to be 
skinned in a gully not far off. He had had a hard tussle 
after it and was too tired to see to the pelt; and then he 
turned to Miss Hardy and drew her cap from his pocket. 

“I picked it up back there in the brush, and forgot 
to give it to you before going out,” he said. 

That was all—no look or manner that showed any 
remembrance of their conversation. And for the next 
two days the girl saw very little of their guide; no 
more long gallops ahead of the party. Mr. Genesee 
had taken a sedate turn, and remained pretty close to 
the rest, and if any of the ladies got more of his atten¬ 
tion than another it was Mrs. Hardy. 

He had for her something approaching veneration. 
In her tender, half-shy love of her husband she seemed 


BANKED FIRES. 


55 


to him as the Madonna to those of the Roman church 
—a symbol of something holy—of a purity of affection 
unknown to the rough man of the hills. Unpreten¬ 
tious little Til lie would have been amazed if she had 
suspected the pedestal she occupied in the imagina¬ 
tion of this dark-faced fellow, whose only affection 
seemed to be lavished on Mowitza. Clara always 
looked at him somewhat askance; and in passing a 
party of the Indians who were berry-hunting in the 
mountains, she noted suspiciously his ready speech 
in their own language, and the decided deference paid 
him by them; and the stolid stare of the squaws 
filled her with forebodings of covetousness for her 
raiment—of which several of them rather stood in 
need, though the weather was warm—and that night was 
passed by her in waking dreams of an Indian massa¬ 
cre, with their guide as a leader of the enemy. 

"Do you know them very well?" asked Miss Hardy, 
riding up to Genesee, "Is it entirely Chinook they are 
talking? Let me try my knowledge of it. I should 
like to speak to them in their jargon. Can I?" 

"You can try. Here’s a Siwash, a friend of mine, 
who is as near a Boston (American") man as any of 
them—try him.” 

And, under Genesee’s tuition, she asked several 
questions of the berry yield in the hills, and the dis¬ 
tance to markets where pelts could be sold; and the 
Indian answered briefly, expressing distance as much 
by the sweep of his hand toward the west as by the 
adjective ‘'siah-si-ah;" and Miss Hardy, well satisfied 
with her knowledge, would have liked to add to her 
possessions the necklace of bear’s claws that adorned 
the bronze throat of the gentleman who answered her 
questions. 


56 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


The squaws slouched around the camp, curious and 
dirty, here and there a half-breed showing the paler 
blood through olive skin. The younger women or 
girls were a shade less repulsive than their mothers, 
but none showed material for a romance of Indian 
life. They were as spiritless as ill-kept cattle. 

Back of some tethered ponies Miss Hardy noticed a 
dark form dodging as if to avoid being seen. A squaw 
possessed of shyness was such a direct contradiction 
of those she had seen, that the white girl found her¬ 
self watching the Indian one with a sort of curiosity— 
in fact, rode her horse over in the direction of the 
ponies, thinking the form she had got a glimpse of 
was only a child; but it was not, for back of the 
ponies it lay flat to the ground as a snake, only the 
head raised, the eyes meeting those of Miss Hardy 
with a half scowl, and the bright-beaded dress outlin¬ 
ing the form of a girl perhaps twenty years old, and 
dressed much neater than any she had seen in the 
camp. By the light tinge of color she was evidently 
a half-breed, and the white girl was about to turn her 
horse’s head, when, with a low exclamation, the other 
seized a blanket that had slipped from a pony, and 
quick as a flash had rolled her plump form in it, head 
and heels, and dropped like one asleep, face down¬ 
ward, in the trampled grass. 

Wondering at the sudden hiding and its cause. 
Miss Hardy turned away and met Genesee, who was 
riding toward her. 

“Shaky-looking stock,” he commented, supposing 
she was looking at the ponies. "The rest are going 
on. Miss; we have to do some traveling to reach our 
last camp by night-fall.” 

As they rode away, Miss Hardy turned for a last 


BANKED FIRES. 


57 


look at that mummy-looking form by the ponies. It 
apparently had not moved. She wondered if it was 
Genesee the girl hid from, and if so, why? Was 
their guide one of those heroes of the border whose 
face is a thing of terror to Indian foe? And was the 
half-breed girl one of the few timid ones? She could 
not answer her own questions, and something kept her 
from speaking to Genesee of it; in fact, she did not 
speak to him of anything with the same freedom since 
that conversation by the laurel bushes. 

Sometimes she would laugh a little to herself as 
she thought of how he had brushed off that coat-sleeve; 
it had angered her, amused her, and puzzled her. That 
entire scene seemed a puzzling, unreal sort of an 
affair to her sometimes, especially when looking at 
their guide as he went about the commonplace duties in 
the camp or on the trail. An undemonstrative, prosaic 
individual she knew he appeared to the rest; laconic 
and decided when he did speak, but not a cheery com¬ 
panion. To her always, after that day, he was a sug¬ 
gestion of a crater in which the fires were banked. 



58 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER V. 

AT LAST CAMP. 

After their stop at the Indian camp, which Genesee 
explained was a berrying crowd from the Kootenai 
tribe, there was, of course, comment among the vis¬ 
itors as to the mixed specimens of humanity they had 
seen there. 

“I donH wonder a white man is ashamed of an 
Indian wife^” said Mrs. Houghton. “What slouchy 
creatures!” 

“All the more reason for a white man to act the part 
of missionary, and marry them,’’ remarked Rachel 
Hardy, “and teach them what the domestic life of a 
woman should be.’’ 

Genesee turned square around to look at the speaker 
—perhaps she did not strike him as being a domestic 
woman herself. Whatever the cause of that quick 
attention, she noticed it, and added: “Well, Mr. Gen 
esee, don’t you think so? You must have seen consid¬ 
erable of that sort of life.” 

“I have—some," he answered concisely, but show¬ 
ing no disposition to discuss it, while Mrs. Houghton 
was making vain efforts to engage Miss Hard}^’s atten¬ 
tion by the splendid spread of the country below them; 
but it was ineffectual. 

“Yes, Clara, I see the levels along that river—• 
I’ve been seeing them for the past two hours—but 
just now I am studying the social system of those 
hills;” and then she turned again to their guide. 


AT LAST CAMP. 


59 


"You did not answer my question, Mr. Genesee," she 
said, ignoring Mrs. Houghton’s admonishing glances. 
"Do you not agree with my idea of marriages between 
whites and Indians?” 

• "No!" he said bluntly; "most of the white men I 
know among the Indians need themselves to be taught 
how people should live; they need white women to 
teach them. It’s uphill work showing an Indian how 
to live decent when a man has forgotten how himself. 
Missionary work! Squaw men are about as fit for that 
as—as hell’s fit for a powder-house.” 

And under this emphatic statement and the shocked 
expression of Clara’s face, Miss Hardy collapsed, 
with the conviction that there must be lights and 
shades of life in the Indian country that did not make 
themselves apparent to the casual visitor. She won¬ 
dered sometimes that Genesee/ had lived there so long 
with no family ties, and she seldom heard him speak 
of any white friend in Montana—only of old Davy 
MacDougall sometimes. Most of his friends had 
Indian names. Altogether, it seemed a purposeless 
sort of existence. 

"Do you expect to live your life out here, like this?” 
she asked him once. "Don’t you ever expect to go 
back home?” 

"Hardly! There is nothing to take me back now.” 

"And only a horse and a gun to keep you here?” she 
smiled. 

"N—no; something besides. Miss. I’ve got a right 
smart of a ranch on the other side of the Maple 
range. It’s running wild—no stock on it; but in Tamah- 
nous Hill there’s a hole I’ve been digging at for the 
past four years. MacDougall reckons I’m ‘witched’ by 
it, but it may pan out all right some of these days.” 


6o 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Gold hunting?” 

“No, Miss, silver; and it’s there. I’ve got tired 
more than once and given it the klatawa (the go-by); 
but I’d always come back, and I reckon I always will 
until I strike it.” 

“And then?” 

“Well, I haven’t got that far yet.” 

And thus any curiosity about the man’s life or 
future was generally silenced. He had told her many 
things of the past; his life in the mines of Colorado 
and Idaho, with now and then the diversion of a gov¬ 
ernment scout’s work along the border. All of that 
he would speak of without reserve, but of the actual 
present or of the future he would say nothing. 

“I have read somewhere in a book of a man without a 
past,” remarked the girl to Mrs. Hardy; “but our 
guide seems a man utterly without a future.” 

“Perhaps he does not like to think of it here alone,” 
suggested Tillie thoughtfully; “he must be very 
lonely sometimes. Just see how he loves that horse!” 

“Not a horse, Tillie— a klootchman kiuatan," cor¬ 
rected the student of Chinook; “if you are going to 
live out here, you must learn the language of the 
hills.” 

“You are likely to know it first;” and then, after a 
little, she added: “But noticing that man’s love for 
his Mowitza, I have often thought how kind he would 
be to a wife. I think he has a naturally affectionate 
nature, though he does swear—I heard him ; and to 
grow old and wild here among the Indians and squaw 
men seems too bad. He is intelligent—a man who might 
accomplish a great deal yet. You know he is compar¬ 
atively young—thirty-five, I heard Hen say.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Houghton sarcastically; “a good 


AT LAST CAMP. 


6 l 


age at which to adopt a child. You had better take 
him back as one of the fixtures on the ranch, Tillie; 
of course he may need some training in the little 
courtesies of life, but no doubt Rachel would postpone 
her return East and offer her services as tutor; ” and 
with this statement Mistress Houghton showed her 
disgust of the entire subject. 

“She is ‘riled,said the girl, looking quizzically 
after the plump retreating form. 

“Why, what in the world—’’ 

“Nothing in the world, Tillie, and that’s what’s 
the matter with Clara. Her ideas of the world are, 
and always will be, bounded by the rules and regula¬ 
tions of Willow Centre, Kentucky. Of course it isn’t 
to be found on a map of the United States, but it’s a 
big place to Clara; and she doesn’t approve of Mr. 
Genesee because he lives outside its knowledge. She 
intimated yesterday that he might be a horse-thief 
for any actual acquaintance we had with his resources 
or manner of living.” 

“Ridiculous!” laughed Tillie. “That man!” 

The girl slipped her arm around the little wife’s 
waist and gave her a hug like a young bear. She had 
been in a way lectured and snubbed by that man, but 
she bore no maliCe. 

The end of their cultus corrie was reached as they 
went into camp for a two-days’ stay, on the shoulder 
of a mountain from which one could look over into 
the Idaho hills, north into British Columbia, and 
through the fair Kootenai valleys to the east, where 
the home-ranch lay. 

Houghton and Hardy each had killed enough big 
game to become inoculated with the taste for wild 
life, and the ladies were delighted with the idea of 


62 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


having the spoils of the hunt for the adornment of their 
homes; and altogether the trip was voted a big success. 

Is there anything more appetizing, after a long 
ride through the mountains, than to rest under 
the cedars at sunset and hear the sizzle of broiled 
meat on the red coals, and have the aroma of coffee 
borne to you on the breeze that would lull you to 
sleep if you were not so hungry? 

“I could have eaten five meals during every twenty- 
four hours since we started, ” acknowledged Rachel, as 
she watched with flattering attention the crisping 
slices of venison that were accumulating on a 
platter by the fire. 

And she looked as if both the appetite and the wild 
living had agreed with her. Clara complained that 
Rachel really seemed to pride herself on the amount 
of tan she had been able to gather from the wind and 
the sun, while Hardy decided that only her light 
hair would keep her from being taken for an Indian. 

But for all the looks that were gaining a tinge of 
wildness, and the appetites that would persist in 
growing ravenous, it was none the less a jolly, pleas¬ 
ant circle that gathered about the evening meal, 
sometimes eaten on a large flat stone, if any were 
handy, and again on the grass, where the knives and 
small articles of table-ware would lose themselves in 
the tall spears; but, whatever was used as a table, the 
meal in the evening was the domestic event of the* 
day. At midday there was often but a hasty lunch; 
breakfast was simply a preparation for travel. But 
in the evening all were prepared for rest and the 
enjoyment of either eatables or society. And until 
the darkness fell there was the review of the day’s 
hunt by the men—Hardy and Houghton vying with 



AT LAST CAMP. 


63 


each other in their recitals—or, as Ivans expressed 
it, “swappin’ lies”—around the fire. Sometimes there 
would be singing, and through the notes of night-birds 
in the forest would sound the call of human throats 
echoing upward in old hymns that all had known 
sometime, in the East. And again Tillie would 
sing them a ballad or a love-song in a sweet, fresh 
voice; or, with Clara,Hardy, and Houghton, a quartette 
would add volume to some favorite, their scout a 
silent listener. Rachel never sang with the rest; she 
preferred whistling, herself. And many a time when 
out of sight of her on the trail, she was located by 
that boyish habit she had of echoing the songs of 
many of the birds that were new to her, learning their 
notes, and imitating them so well as to bring many a 
decoyed answer from the woods. 

Between herself and the guide there was no more their 
former cojiiaraderie. They had never regained their old 
easy, friendly manner. Still, she asked him that night 
at ‘‘last camp” of the music of the Indians. Had they 
any? Could he sing it? Had there ever been any of 
their music published? etc. 

And he told them of the airs that were more like 
chants, like the echoes of whispering or moaning 
forests, set to human words; of the dusky throats 
that, without training, yet sang together with never a 
discord; of the love-songs that had in them the minor 
tones of sadness. Only their war-songs seemed to 
carry .brightness, and they only when echoes of 
victory. 

In the low, glowing light of the fire, when the 
group around it faded in the darkness, he seemed 
to forget his many listeners, and talked on as if to 
only one. To the rest it was as if they had met a 


64 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


stranger there that evening for the first time, and 
found him entertaining. Even Mrs. Houghton dropped 
her slightly supercilious manner toward him, a change 
to which he was as indifferent as to her coolness. It 
may have been Tillie’s home-songs in the evening 
that unlocked his lips; or it may have been the reali¬ 
zation that the pleasure-trip was ended—that in a 
short time he would know these people no more, who 
had brought him home-memories in their talk of 
home-lives. It may have been a dash of recklessness 
that urged him to enjoy it for a little only—this 
association that suggested so much of which he had 
long been a stranger to. Whatever the impulse was, 
it showed a side of his nature that only Rachel had 
gained any knowledge of through those first bright, 
eager days of their cultus cor7'ie. 

At Tillie’s request he repeated some remembered 
fragments of Indian songs that had been translated into 
the Red’s language, and which he gave them the Eng¬ 
lish version or meaning of, as well as he could. A 
couple of them he knew entire, and to Tillie’s delight he 
hummed the plaintiv airs until she caught the notes. 
And even after the rest had quietly withdrawn and rolled 
themselves in blankets for the night’s rest. Hardy 
and his wife and Genesee still sat there with old 
legends of Tsiatko, the demon of the night, for company, 
and with strange songs in which the rriusic would yet 
sound familiar to any ears used to the shrilling of 
the winds through the timber, or the muffled moans 
of the wood-dove. 

And in the ^weet dusk of the night, Rachel, 
the first to leave the fire, lay among the odorous, 
spicy branches of the cedar and watched the picture 
of the group about the fire. All was in darkness,save 


AT LAST CAMP. 


65 


when bit of reflected red would outline form or 
feature, and they looked rather uncanny in the red-and- 
black coloring. An Indian council or the grouping of 
witches and warlocks it might have been, had one 
judged the scene only from sight. But the voices of 
the final three, dropped low though they were for the 
sake of the supposed sleepers, yet had a tone of 
■pleasant converse that belied their impish appearance. 

Those voices came to Rachel dreamil}^, merging 
their music with the drowsy odors of a spruce pillow. 
And through them all she heard Til lie and Genesee 
singing a song of some unlettered Indian poet: 

'■'•Leinolo mika tsolo siah polaklie^ 

Toxvagh tsee chil-chil siah saghallie. 

Mika na chahko?—me sika chil-chil^ 

Opitsah! mika winapie, 

Tso lo !—tso -lo!" 

“Wild do I wander, far in the darkness, 

Shines bright a sweet star far up aliSve. 

Will you not come to me? you are the star. 

Sweetheart! I wait, 

Lost!—in the dark ! ” 

And the white girl’s mouth curled dubiously in 
that smile that always vanquished the tender curves 
of her lips, and then dropped asleep whispering the 
refrain, ''Tsolo — tso-lo!" 

5 


66 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


% 


CHAPTER VI. 

TSOLO-TSO-LO ! 

The retracing of steps, either figuratively or liter¬ 
ally, is always provocative of thought to the individ¬ 
ual who walks again over old paths; the waning of a 
moon never finds the same state of feelings in the heart 
that had throbbed through it under the gold sickle. 
Back over how many a road do we walk with a sigh, 
remembering the laughter that had once echoed along 
it! something has been gained, something has been 
lost, since; and a human sigh is as likely to be called 
forth by one cause as the other. 

Miss Rachel Hardy, who usually laughed at sighs of 
sentiment, did not indulge in them as one by one the 
landmarks of the past three weeks rose into sight. 
But different natures find different vents for feeling, 
and she may have got rid of hers by the long gallops 
she took alone over the now known trail, priding her¬ 
self on her ability to find her way miles ahead of the 
slower-moving party; and resting herself and horse in 
some remembered retreat, would await their coming. 

Through these solitary rides she began to understand 
the fascination such a free, untrammeled existence 
would have for a man. One must feel a very Adam 
in the midst of this virginity of soil and life of the 
hills. She had not Tillie’s domestic ideas of life, 
else the thought of an Eve might also have occurred 
to her. But though she wasted no breath in sighs 
over the retraced cultus corrie^ neither did she in the 


TSOLO—TSO-LO! 


67 


mockery that had tantalized Clara in the beginning. 
That lady did not find her self-imposed duty of chap¬ 
erone nearly so arduous as at first, since, from the. 
time the other ladies awakened to the fact that their 
guide had a good, baritone voice and could be inter¬ 
esting, the girl forgot her role of champion, also her 
study of mongrel languages; for she dropped that 
ready use of Chinook of which she had been proud, 
especially in her conversation with him, and only 
used it if chance threw her in the way of Indians 
hunting or gathering olallie (berries) in the hills. 

Genesee never noticed by word or action the changed 
manner that dropped him out of her knowledge. Once 
or twice, in crossing a bit of country that was in any 
way dangerous to a stranger, he had said no one must 
leave the party or go out of hearing distance; and 
though the order was a general one, they all knew he 
meant Rachel, and the ladies wondered a little if 
that generally headstrong damsel would heed it, or if 
she would waht willfully to take the bit in her teeth 
and go as she pleased—a habit of hers; but she did 
not; she rode demurely with the rest, showing the 
respect of a soldier to the orders of a commander. 
Along the last bit of bad country he spoke to her of 
the enforced care through the jungle of underbrush, 
where the cJietwoot (black bear) was likely to be 
met and prove a dangerous enemy, at places where 
the trail led along the edge of ravines, and where a 
fright to a horse was a risky thing. 

“It’s hard on you, Miss, to be kept back here with 
the rest of us,” he said, half apologetically; ‘‘you’re 
too used to riding free for this to be any pleasure, 
blit—” 

‘ Don’t distress yourself about me, she answered eas- 


68 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


ily, but without looking at him. “I have felt a little lazy 
to day, so has Betty, and have been satisfied to loaf; 
but now we are at the edge of this bad strip, and just 
down over this bend ahead is a long stretch of 
level, and I think—yes, I am quite sure—I am ready 
now for a run.” 

And without waiting to hear either assent or dissent 
to her intention, she touched Betty with the whip, and 
Mowitza and her master were left behind, much to 
Mowitza’s dissatisfaction. She gave one plunge ahead 
as if to follow, but Genesee’s hand on the bridle had 
a quick, cruel grip for a moment, and in slow silence 
they made their way down the timbered slope to the 
lower levels. And the girl, free from companionship 
save her own thoughts, galloped throtigh the odorous, 
shadowy table-lands, catching here and there a glimpse 
of glistening water in a river ahead, as it trailed its 
length far below the plateaus, and shone like linked 
diamonds away toward the east. 

She remembered the river; it was a branch of the 
Kootenai. To be near it meant but a short journey 
home; two days more, perhaps, and then—well, their 
outing would be over. She would go back East, and 
say good-bye to Betty; and then she began to think 
of that man who belonged to these hills and who 
never need leave them—never need go a mile without 
his horse, if he did not choose; and she envied him 
as she could not have thought it possible to do six 
months before—to envy a man such a primitive exist¬ 
ence, such simple possessions! But most human wants 
are so much a matter of association, and Rachel Hardy, 
though all unconscious^ of it, was most impression¬ 
able to surroundings. Back of her coolness and careless¬ 
ness was a sensitive temperament in which the pulses 


TSOLO-TSO-LO! 


69 


were never stilled. It thrilled her with quick sympa¬ 
thies for which she was vexed with herself, and which 
she hid as well as she could. She had more than likely 
never tried to analyze her emotions; they were seldom 
satisfactory enough for her to grant them so much 
patience; but had she done so, she would have found 
her desires molded as much by association and senti¬ 
ment as most other human nature of her age. 

Once or twice she looked back as she got clear of 
the timber, but could see nothing of the others, and 
Betty seemed to scent the trail home, and long for 
the ranch and the white-coated flocks of the pastures, 
for she struck out over the table-lands, where her 
hoofs fell so softly in the grass that the wild 
things of the ground-homes and the birds that rest 
on the warm earth scampered and flew from under the 
enemy’s feet that were shod with iron. A small herd 
of elk with uncouth heads and monstrous antlers were 
startled from the shelter of a knoll around which she 
cantered; for a moment the natives and the stranger 
gazed at each other with equal interest, and then a 
great buck plunged away over the rolling land to the 
south, and the others followed as if they had been 
given a word of command. 

The girl watched them out of sight, finding them, 
like the most of Montana natives, strange and inter¬ 
esting—not only the natives, but the very atmosphere 
of existence, with its tinges of wildness and coloring 
of the earth; even the rising and setting of the sun 
had a distinct character of its own, in the rarefied air 
of this land that seemed so far off from all else in the 
world. For in the valley of the Kootenai, where the 
light breaks over the mountains of the east and van¬ 
ishes again over the mountains of the west, it is hard 


70 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


at times to realize that its glory is for any land but 
the mellow, sun-kissed “park” whose only gates open 
to the south. 

The late afternoon was coming on; only an hour or 
so of sun, and then the long flush twilight. 

Remembering the camping-spot they were making 
for, she gave Betty rein, thinking to reach it and 
have a fire built on their arrival, and her hard ride 
gave her a longing for the sight of the pack-mules 
with the eatables. 

Another of those ugly, jolting bits of scrub-timber 
had to be crossed before the haven of rest was reached. 
Betty had almost picked her way through it, when a 
huge black something came scrambling down through 
the brush almost in front of them. The little mare 
shied in terror, and the girl tried to make a circuit 
of the animal, which she could see was an enormous 
black bear. It did not seem to notice her, but was 
rolling and pitching downward as if on a trail—no 
doubt that of honey in a tree. Managing Betty was 
not an easy matter, and it took all of the girl’s strength 
to do so until the black stranger passed, and then, on 
loosening the bridle, the terrified beast gave a leap 
forward. There was a crash, a growl from under her 
feet, and an answering one from the huge beast that 
had just gone by them; she had been followed by two 
cubs that had escaped Rachel’s notice in the thick 
brush, as all her attention had been given to the mother; 
but Betty’s feet coming down on one of the cubs had 
brought forth a call that the girl knew might mean a 
war of extermination. With a sharp cut of the whip, 
Betty, wild from the clawing thing at her feet, sprang 
forward over it with a snort of terror, just as the 
mother with fierce growls broke through the brush. 



TSOLO-TSO-LO ! 


71 


Once clear of them, the little mare ran like mad 
through the rough trail over which she had picked her 
way so carefully but a little before. Stones and 
loose earth clattered down the gully, loosened by her 
flying feet, and dashed ominously in the mountain 
stream far below. The girl was almost torn from 
the saddle by the low branches of the trees under which 
she was borne. In vain she tried to check or mod¬ 
erate the mare’s gait. She could do little but drop 
low on the saddle and hang there, wondering if she 
should be able to keep her seat until they got clear 
of the timber. The swish of some twigs across her 
eyes half blinded her, and it seemed like an hour 
went by with Betty crashing through the brush, guid¬ 
ing herself, and seeming to lose none of her fright. 
Her ears were deaf to the girl’s voice, and at last, 
stumbling in her headlong run, her rider was thrown 
against a tree, knowing nothing after the sickening 
jar, and seeing nothing of Betty, who, freed from her 
burden, recovered her footing, and, triumphant, dashed 
away on;a cultus ''coolie' (run) of her own. 

When she recovered her powers of reasoning, she 
felt too lazy, too tired to use them. She ached all 
over from the force of the fall, and though realizing 
that the sun was almost down, and that she was alone 
there in the timber, all she felt like doing was to 
drag herself into a more comfortable position and 
go to sleep; but real sleep did not come easily— 
only a drowsy stupor, through which she realized she 
was hungry, and wondered if the rest were eating 
supper by that time, and if they had found Betty, 
and if—no, rather, when would they find her? 

She had no doubt just yet that they would find 
her; she could half imagine how carefully and 


72 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


quickly Mowitza would cover the ground after they 
missed her. Of course there were other horses in the 
party, but Mowitza was the only one she happened to 
think of. She did not know where she was; the mare 
had struck into a new trail for herself, and had 
dropped her rider on a timbered slope of one of the 
foot-hills, where there were no remembered landmarks, 
and the closeness of night would prevent her from 
seeking them. 

Twice she roused herself and tried to walk, but 
she was dizzily sick from the wild ride and the fall 
that had stunned her, and both tinies slie was com¬ 
pelled to drop back on her couch of grass. The stars 
began to creep out in the clear, warm sky, and up 
through the timber the shadows grew black, and it all 
seemed very peaceful and very lovely. She thought 
she would not mind sleeping there if she only had a 
blanket, and—yes, some hot coffee—for through the 
shadows of the lower hills the dew falls quickly, and 
already the coolness made itself felt with a little 
shiver. She searched her pocket for some matches— 
not a match, therefore no fire. 

But a sound in the distance diverted her thoughts 
from disappointment, and she strained her ears for a 
repetition of it. Surely it was a shot, but too far 
off for any call of hers to answer it. She could do 
nothing but listen and wait, and the waiting grew 
long, so long that she concluded it could be no one 
on her trail—perhaps some of the Indians in the 
hills. She would be glad to see even them, she 
thought, for all she met had seemed kindly disposed. 

Then she fell to wondering about that half-breed 
girl who had hid back of the ponies; was it Genesee 
she was afraid of, and if so, why? 



TSOLO-TSO-LO ! 


73 


Suddenly a light gleamed through the woods above 
her; a bent figure was coming down the hill carrying 
a torch, and back of it a horse was following slowly. 

“Genesee! “ called a glad voice through the dusk. 
“Genesee !” 

There was no word in answer; only the form 
straightened, and with the torch held high above his 
head he plunged down through the trees, straight as 
an arrow, in answer to her voice. 

She had risen to her feet, but swayed unsteadily 
as she went to meet him. 

“I am so glad—it—is—you," she said, her hands 
outstretched as he came close. And then that return¬ 
ing dizziness sent her staggering forward, half on her 
knees and half in his arms, as he threw the torch from 
him and caught her. 

She did not faint, though the only thing she was 
still conscious of was that she was held in strong arms, 
and held very closely, and the beat of a heart that 
was not her own throbbed against her rather nerveless 
form. He had not yet spoken a word, but his breath 
coming quickly, brokenly, told of great exhaustion, 
or it may be excitement. 

Opening her eyes, she looked up into the face that 
had a strange expression in the red light from the 
torch—his eyes seemed searching her own so curi¬ 
ously 

“I—I’m all right," she half smiled in answer to 
what she thought an unspoken query, “only"— and a 
wave of forgetfulness crept over the estrangement 
of the late days—and she added—“only —Hyas till 
nika" (I am very tired). 

Her eyes were half closed in the content of being 
found, and the safety of his presence. She had not 


74 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


changed her position, nor noticed that he had not 
spoken. His hat had fallen to the ground, and 
something almost boyish was in the bend of his bared 
head and the softness of his features as his face 
drooped low over her own. Death brings back the 
curves of youth to aged faces sometimes—is it the 
only change that does so? 

She felt the hand on her shoulder trembling; was 
it with her weight—and he so strong? A muttered 
sentence came to her ears, through which she could 
only distinguish a word that in its suppressed force 
might belong to either a curse or a prayer—an 
intense "Christ!” 

That aroused her to a realization of what she had 
been too contented to remember. She opened her eyes 
and raised her head from his arm, brushing his lips 
with her hair as she did so. 

"Were you so much alarmed? ” she asked in a clearer, 
more matter-of-fact way, as she propped herself up on 
his outstretched arm; "and did you come alone to 
find me?” 

He drew back from her with a long, indrawn breath, 
and reached for his hat. 

"Yes,” he said. 

It was the first time he had spoken to her, and he 
did so with his eyes still on her face and that curi¬ 
ous expression in them. He was half kneeling, his 
body drawn back and away from her, but his eyes 
unchanging in their steadiness. As the girl lay there 
full length on the mountain grass, only her head 
raised and turned toward him, she might have been 
a Lamia from their attitudes and his expression. 

"It seemed long to wait,” she continued, turning her 
eyes toward Mowitza, who had come quietly near them; 




TSOLO-TSO-LO! 


75 


“but I was not afraid. I knew you would find me. I 
would have walked back to meet you if the fall had 
not made me so dizzy. I am decidedly wake kloshe" 
(no good); and sh*e smiled as she reached out her 
hand to him, and he helped her rise to her feet. “I 
feel all jolted to pieces,” she said, taking a few steps 
toward a tree against which she leaned. “And even 
now that you have come, I don’t know how 1 am to 
get to camp.” 

“I will get you there,” he answered briefly. “Did 
the mare throw you?” 

“I am not sure what she did,” answered the girl. 
“She fell, I think, and I fell with her, and when I 
could see trees instead of stars she had recovered 
and disappeared. Oh!. Did you see the bear?” 

“Yes, and shot her. She might have killed you when 
her temper was up over that cub. How did it hap¬ 
pen? ” 

Each of them was a little easier in speech than at 
first, and she told him as well as she could of the epi¬ 
sode, and her own inability to check Betty. And he 
told her of the fright of the others, and their anxiety, 
and that he had sent them straight ahead to camp, 
while he struck into the timber where Betty had left the 
old trail. 

“I promised them to have word of you soon,” he 
added; “and I reckon they’ll be mighty glad you can 
take the word yourself—it’s more than they expected. 
She might have killed you.” 

His tone and repetition of the words showed the 
fear that had been uppermost in his thoughts. 

“Yes—she might,” agreed the girl. “That is a lesson 
to me for my willfulness; ” and then she smiled mock¬ 
ingly with a gleam of her old humor, adding: “And so 


76 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


in the future, for the sake of my neck and the safety 
of my bones, I will be most obedient to orders, Mr. 
Genesee Jack.” 

He only looked at her across the flickering circle of 
light from the torch. It must have dazzled his eyes, 
for in putting on his hat he pulled it rather low over 
his forehead, and turning his back abruptly on her he 
walked over for Mowitza. 

But he did not bring her at once. He stood with 
his elbows on her shoulders and his head bent over his 
clasped hands, like a man who is thinking—or else 
very tired. 

Rachel had again slipped down beside the tree; her 
head still seemed to spin around a little if she stood 
long; and from that point of vantage she could easily 
distinguish the immovable form in the shifting lights 
and shadows. 

“What is the matter with the man?” she asked her¬ 
self as he stood there. “He was glad to find me—I 
know it; and why he should deliberately turn his back 
and walk away like that, I can’t see. But he shan’t 
be cool or sulky with me ever again; 1 won’t let him.” 

And with this determination she said: 

“Genesee!” 

“Yes,” he answered, but did not move. 

“Now that you have found me, are you going to leave 
me here all night?” she asked demurely. 

“isfo. Miss,” he answered, and laid his hand on the 
bridle. “Come, Mowitza, we must take her to camp; ” 
and striding back with quick, decided movements that 
were rather foreign to his manner, he said: 

“Here she is. Miss; can you ride on that saddle?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I—I—suppose so; but how 
are you to get there?” 


; 


TSOLO-TSO-LO! 


77 


“Walk,” he answered concisely. 

“Why, how far is it?” 

“About five miles—straight across." 

“Can we go straight across?” 

“No.” 

She looked up at him and laughed, half vexed. 

“Mr. Genesee Jack,” she remarked, “you can be one 
of the most aggravatingly non-committal men I ever 
met. It has grown as dark as a stack of black cats, 
and I know we must have an ugly trip to make with 
only one horse between us. Do you suppose I have 
no natural curiosity as to how we are to get there, and 
when? Don’t be such a lock-and-ke}'- individual. I 
don’t believe it is natural to you. It is an acquired 
habit, and hides your real self often.” 

’“And a good thing it does, I reckon,” he returned; 
“locks and keys are good things to have. Miss; don’t 
quarrel with mine or my ways to-night; wait till I leave 
you safe with your folks, then you can find fault or 
laugh, whichever you please. It won’t matter then.” 

His queer tone kept her from answering at once, 
and she sat stilly watching him adjust the stirrup, 
and then make a new torch of pine splits and knots. 

“What do you call a torch in Chinook?” she asked 
after a little, venturing on the supposed safe ground 
of jargon, 

"La gome towagh" he answered, splitting a withe 
to bind them together, and using a murderous looking 
hunting-knife on which the light glimmered and fretted. 

“And a knife?” she added. 

“ Opits ah. ” 

She looked up at him quickly. Opits ah means 
sweetheart,” she returned; “I know that much myself. 
Are you not getting a little mixed, Professor?” 


78 


TOLD IN T1 


“I think not,” he said, glancing :ross at her; ‘‘the 
same word is used for both; and,’ he added, thrust¬ 
ing the knife in its sheath and rising to his feet, ‘‘I 
reckon the men who started the jargon knew what 
they were talking about, too.' Come, are you ready?” 

Assuredly, though he had hunted for her, and been 
glad to find her alive, yet now that he had found 
her he had no fancy for conversation, and he showed 
a decided inclination to put a damper on her attempts 
at it. He lifted her to the saddle, and walking at 
Mowitza’s head, they started on their home journey 
through the night. 

‘‘The moon will be up soon,” he remarked, glancing 
up at the sky. ‘‘We only need a torch for the gulch 
down below there.” 

She did not answer; the movement of the saddle 
brought back the dizziness to her head—all the glare 
of the torch was a blur before her. She closed her 
eyes, thinking it would pass away, but it did not, 
and she wondered why he stalked on like that, just as 
if he did not care, never once looking toward her or 
noticing how she was dropping forward almost on 
Mowitza’s neck. Then, as they descended a steep bit 
of hill, she became too much lost to her surroundings 
for even that speculation, and could only say slowly: 

" Tsoh, Genesee?” 

‘‘No,” he answered grimly, ‘‘not now.” 

But she knew or heard nothing of the tone that 
implied more than it expressed. She could onlj^. 
reach gropingly toward him with one hand, as if to 
save herself from falling from the saddle. Only her 
finger-tips touched his shoulder—it might have been a 
drooping branch out of the many under which they 
went, for all the weight of it; but grim and unrespon- 



-TSO-LO! 


79 


sive as he was ir jome ways, he turned, through some 
quick sympathy at the touch of her hand, and caught 
her arm as she was about to fall forward. In an 
instant she was lifted from the saddle to his feet, and 
his face was as white as hers as he looked at her. 

“Dead!” he said, in a quiet sort of way, as her hand 
dropped nerveless from his own, and he lifted her in his 
arms, watching for some show of life in the closed lids 
and parted lips. And then, with a great shivering breath, 
he drew the still face to his own, and in a half-moth¬ 
erly way smoothed back the fair hair as if she had 
been a child, whispering over and over: “Not dead, 
my pretty! not you, my girl! Here, open your eyes; 
listen to me; don’t leave me like this until I tell 
you—tell you—God! I wish I was dead beside you! 
Ah, my girl ! my girl !” 


8o 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER VII. 

UNDER THE CHINOOK MOON. 


Ikt polaklie konaway vioxt. 

Over the crowns of the far hills the moon wheeled 
slowly up into the sky, giving the shadows a cloak of 
blue mist, and vying with the forgotten ' . h in 
lighting up the group in the gulch. The night winds 
rustled through the leaves and sighed through the 
cedars; and the girl’s voice, scarcely louder than the 
whispers of the wood, said: “Genesee! Tillie!’’ 

“Yes, Miss,’’ the man answered, as he lowered her 
head from his shoulder to the sward, making a pillow 
for her of his hat. With returning life and conscious¬ 
ness she slipped again out of his reach or possession, 
and himself and his emotio^ns were put aside, to be 
hidden from her eyes. 

Through the blessing of death, infinite possession 
comes to so maii}^ souls that life leaves beggared; and 
in those hurried moments of uncertainty, she belonged 
to him more fully than he could hope for while she 
lived. 

“Is it you, Genesee?’’she said, after looking at him 
drowsily for a little. “I—I thought Tillie was here, 
crying, and kissing me.’’ 

“No, Miss, you fainted, I reckon, and just dreamed 
that part of it,” he answered, but avoiding the eyes 
that, though drowsy, looked so directly at him. 

“I suppose so,” she agreed. “I tried to reach you 


UNDER THE CHINOOK MOON. 


8l 


when I felt myself going; but you wouldn’t look 
around. Did you catch me?” 

‘‘Yes; and I don’t think you were quite square 
with me back there; you told me you were all right; 
but you must have got hurt more than you owned 
up to. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

‘‘But I am not—indeed I am not!” she persisted. 
"I was not at aij injured except for the jar of the 
fall; it leaves irm dizzy and sick when I sit upright 
in the saddle—that is all.” 

‘‘And it is enough,” he returned decidedly; ‘‘do you 
’spose, if you’d told me just how you felt, I would 
have set you there to ride through these hills and 
hollows? ” 

‘‘What else could you do?” she asked; “you couldn’t 
bring a carriage for me.” 

“May be not, but I could have rode Mowitza myself 
and carried you.” 

‘‘That would be funny,” she smiled. ‘‘Poor Mowitza! 
could she carry double?” 

‘‘Yes,” he answered curtly; perhaps the situation 
did not strike him in a humorous light. ‘‘Yes, she 
can, and that’s what she will have to do. Let me 
know when you feel able to start.” 

‘‘I think I do now,” she said, raising herself from 
the ground; ‘‘I am a little shaky, but if I do not 
have to sit upright I can keep my wits about me, I 
believe. Will you help me, please?” 

He lifted her into the saddle without a word, and 
then mounting himself, he took her in front of him, 
circling her with one arm and guiding Mowitza with 
the other, with as much unconcern as if he had 
carried damsels in like cavalier fashion all his life. 

They rode on in silence for a little through the 

d 


82 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


shadows of the valley, where the moon’s light only 
fell in patches. His eyes were straight ahead, on 
the alert for gullies and pitfalls along the blind 
trail. He seemed to have no glances for the girl 
whose head was on his shoulder, but whom he held 
most carefully. Once he asked how she felt, and if 
she was comfortable; and she said “Yes, thank you,” 
very demurely, with that mocking smile about her 
lips. She felt like laughing at the whole situation— 
all the more so because he looked so solemn, almost 
grim. She always liad an insane desire to laugh when 
in circumstances where any conventional woman would 
be gathering up her dignity. It had got her into 
scrapes often, and she felt as if it was likely to do so 
now. The movement of the horse no longer made her 
ill, since she did not have to sit upright; she was only 
a little dizzy at times, as if from the rocking of a 
swing, and lazily comfortable with that strong arm 
and shoulder for support. 

“I am afraid I am getting heavy,” she remarked 
after a while; “if I could get my arm around back of 
you and hold either the saddle or reach up to your 
shoulder, I might not be such a dead weight on your 
arm. ” 

"Just as you like,” was the brief reply that again 
aroused her desire to laugh. It did seem ridiculous 
to be forced into a man’s arms like that, and the humor¬ 
ous part of it was heightened, in her eyes, by his appar¬ 
ent sulkiness over the turn affairs had taken. 

She slipped her arm across his back, however, and 
up to his shoulder, thus lightening her weight on the 
arm that circled her, an attempt to which he appeared 
indifferent. And so they rode on out of the valley 
into the level land at the foot of the hills, and then 


UNDER THE CHINOOK MOON. 83 

into the old trail where the route was more familiar 
and not so much care needed. 

The girl raised her head drowsily as she noted 
some old landmarks in the misty light. 

“Poor Mowitza!” she said; “she did not have such 
a load when she came over this road before; it was 
the day after you joined us, do you remember?” 

“Yes.” 

Remember ! It had been the gateway through which 
he had gained a glimpse into a new world—those 
days that were tinged with the delightful suggestions 
of dawn. He smiled rather grimly at the question, but 
she could not see his face well, under the shadow of his 
wide hat. 

“Has Mowitza ever before had to carry double?” 

There was a little wait after her question—perhaps 
he was trying to remember; then he said: 

“Yes." 

She wanted to ask who, and under what circum¬ 
stances, but someway was deterred by his lock-and-key 
manner, as she called it. She rather commended 
herself for her good hurrfor under its influence, and 
wondered that she only felt like laughing at his 
gruffness. With any other person she would have felt 
like retaliating, and she lay there looking up into 
the shadowy face with a mocking self-query as to why 
he was made an exception of. 

“Genesee!” she began, after one of those long spells 
of silence; and then the utterance of the name sug¬ 
gested a new train of thought—“by the way, is your 
name Genesee?” 

He did not answer at once—was he trying to remem¬ 
ber that also? 

“I wish you would tell me, ” she continued, more 


84 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


geatiy than was usual with her. “I am going away 
soon; I would like to know by what real name I am 
to remember you when I am back in Kentucky. Is 
your name Jack Genesee?” 

“No,” he said at last; “Genesee is a name that stuck 
to me from some mines where I worked, south of this. 
If I went back to them I would be called Kootenai 
Jack, perhaps, because I came from here. Plenty of 
men are known by names out here that would not be 
recognized at home, if they have a home.” 

“But your name is Jack?” she persisted. 

“Yes, my name is Jack.” 

But he did not seem inclined to give any further 
information on the subject that just then was of 
interest to her, and she did not like to question fur¬ 
ther, but contented herself with observing: 

“I shan’t call you Genesee any more.” 

“Just as you like. Miss.” 

Again came that crazy desire of hers to laugh, and 
although she kept silent, it w^as a convulsive silence— 
one of heaving bosom and quivering shoulders. To 
hide it, she moved restlessly, changing her position 
somewhat, and glancing about her. 

“Not much farther to go,” she remarked; “won’t 
they be surprised to find you carrying me into camp 
like this? I wonder if Betty came this way, or if 
they found her—the little vixen! There is only one 
more hill to cross until we reach camp—is t];iere not?” 

“Only one more.” 

“And both Mowitza and yourself will need a good 
rest when we get there,” she remarked. “Your arm 
must feel paralyzed. Do you know, I was just think¬ 
ing if you had found me dead in that gulch, you would 
have had to carry me back over this trail, just like 


UNDER THE CHINOOK MOON. 85 

this. Ugh! What a dismal ride, carrying a dead 
woman! ” 

His arm closed around her quickly, and he drew a 
deep breath as he looked at her. 

“I don’t know,” he said in a terse way, as if through 
shut teeth; “perhaps it wouldn’t have been so dismal, 
for I might never have come back. I might have 
staid there—with you.” 

She could see his eyes plainly enough wdien he 
looked at her like that; even the shadows could not 
cover their warmth; they left little to be expressed 
in words, and neither attempted any. Her face turned 
away from him a little, but her hand slipped into the 
clasp of his fingers, and so they rode on in silence. 

The brow of the last hill was reached. Down 
below them could be seen the faint light from the 
camp-fire, and for an instant Mowitza was halted for 
a breathing-spell ere she began the descent. The 
girl glanced down toward the fire-light, and then up 
to his face. 

“You can rest now,” she said, with the old quizzical 
smile about her lips, even while her fingers closed 
on his own. “There is the camp; alia nika wake tsolo" 
(now you no longer wander in the dark). 

But there was no answering smile on his face— 
not even at the pleasure of the language that at times 
had seemed a tacit bond between them. He only looked 
at her in the curious way she had grown accustomed 
to in him, and said: 

“The light down there is for 5 ^ou; I don’t belong 
to it. Just try and remember that after—-after you 
are safe with your folks.” 

“I shall remember a great deal,” returned the girl 
in her independent tone; “among other things, the man 


'86 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


who brought me back to them. Now, why don’t you 
say, 'Just as you like, Miss?’ You ought to—to be 
natural. ” 

But her raillery brought no more words from him. 
His face had again its sombre, serious look, and in 
silence he guided Mowitza’s feet down toward the 
glowing light. Once a puff of wind sent the girl’s 
hair blowing across her face, and he smoothed it back 
carefully that he might see her eyes in the moon¬ 
light; but the half-caress in the movement was as if 
given to a child. All the quick warmth was gone 
from his eyes and speech after that one compre¬ 
hensive outbreak, and the girl was puzzled at the 
change that had come in its stead. He was so gen¬ 
tle, but so guarded—the touch even of his fingers on 
her shoulder was tremulous, as if with the weight of 
resistance forced into them. She did not feel like 
laughing any longer, after they began the descent of 
the hill. His manner had impressed her too strongly 
with the feeling of some change to come with the end 
of that ride and the fraughtful moonlight night, and 
no words came to her; but her hand remained in his 
of its own accord, not because it was held there, and 
she lay very quiet, wondering if he would not speak— 
would say nothing more to her ere they joined the oth¬ 
ers, to whom they were moving nearer at every step. 

But he did not. Once his fingers closed convuls¬ 
ively over her own. His eyes straight ahead caused 
her to glance in that direction, and she saw Tillie 
and Hardy clearly, in the moonlight, walking together 
hand-in-hand down toward the glow of the camp-fire 
On a ledge of rock that jutted out clear from the 
shadowy brush, they lingered for an instant. The 
soft blue light and the silence made them look a lit- 


UNDER THE CHINOOK MOON. 


87 


tie ghostly—a tryst of spirits—as the tall shoulders 
drooped forward with circling arms into which Tillie 
crept, reaching upward until their faces met. The 
eyes of those two on horseback turned involuntarily 
toward each other at the sight of those married lov¬ 
ers, but there was no echo of a caress in their own 
movements, unless it was the caress of a glance; and 
in a few moments more they were within speaking dis¬ 
tance of the camp. 

‘‘We are here,” he said slowly, as Hardy and his 
wife, hearing the steps of the horse, hurried toward 
them. 

"Yes, I know,” she whispered. 

It was their good-bye to the night. 

A neigh from the renegade Betty was answered by 
Mowitza, and in an instant all the group about the 
camp was alive to the fact of the return. But the 
eager questions received few answers, for Genesee 
handed Rachel into the arms of Hardy, and said to 
Tillie: 

‘‘Don’t let them pester her with questions to-night, 
Mrs, Hardy. She has no injuries, I guess, only she’s 
used up and needs rest bad. I found her ready to 
faint in a gulch back from the trail about three 
miles. She’ll be all right to-morrow, I reckon; only 
see that she gets a good rest and isn’t bothered 
to-night. ” 

No need to tell them that. Their gladness at her 
safe return made them all consideration. 

Genesee and Mowitza also came in for a share of 
their solicitude, and the former for a quantity of 
thanks that met with rather brusque response. 

"That’s nothing to thank a man for,” he said a little 
impatiently, as the Houghtons were contributing their 


88 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


share. “I reckon you don’t know much about the duties 
of a scout or guide in this country, or you would 
know it was my business to go for the lady—just as 
it would be to hunt up lost stock, if any had strayed 
off. There wasn’t much of a trick in finding her— 
Betty left too clear a trail; and I reckon it’s time we 
all turned in to sleep instead of talking about it.” 

In the morning Rachel awoke refreshed and expect¬ 
ant in a vague way. The incidents of the night before 
came crowding to her memory, sending the blood tin¬ 
gling through her veins as she thought of their meet¬ 
ing; of the ride; of those few significant words of 
his, and his face as he had spoken. She wondered at 
herself accepting it all so dreamily—as if in a leth¬ 
argy. She was far from a stupor at the thought of it 
in the light of the early day, as she watched the blue 
mists rising up, up, from the valleys. Was he 
watching them too? Was he thinking as she was of 
that ride and its revelations? Would he meet her 
again with that queer, distant manner of his? Would 
he— 

Her ruminations were cut short by Tillie, who 
thought to awaken her with the proffer of a hot cup 
of coffee, and who was surprised to find her aWake. 

“Yes, I am awake, and hungry, too,” she said briskly; 
“you did not give me near enough to eat last night. 
Is breakfast all ready? I wonder how poor Mowitza 
is this morning after her heavy load. Say, Tillie, 
did we look altogether ridiculous?” 

“No, you did not,” said Tillie stoutly. “It was 
wonderfully kind of him to bring you so carefully. I 
always said he had a great deal of heart in him; but 
he is gone, already,” 

“Gone!—where?” And the cup of coffee was set on 


UNDER THE CHINOOK MOON. 89 

the grass as if the hunger and thirst were forgotten. 
“Where?” 

“We don’t know,” said Tillie helplessly. “Clara 
says back to his tribe; but’ she always has something 
like that to say of him. It’s the queerest thing; even 
Hen IS puzzled. He was wakened this morning about 
dawn by Genesee, who told him his time was up with 
the party; that we could follow the trail alone well 
enough now; and that he had to join some Indian 
hunters away north of this to-night, so had to make 
an early start. I guess he forgot to speak of it last 
night, or else was too tired. He left a good-bye for 
Hen to deliver for him to the rest of us, and a 
klahowya to you.” 

“Did he?” asked the girl with a queer little laugh. 
“That was thoughtful of him. May his hunting be 
prosperous and his findings be great.” 

“Dear me!” said Tillie weakly, “you are just as 
careless about it as Clara, and I did think you would 
be sorry to lose him. I am, and so is Hen; but evi¬ 
dently persuasions were of no avail. He said he could 
not even wait for breakfast; that he should have gone 
last night. And the queerest thing about it is that he 
utterly refused any money from Hen, on the plea that 
the whole affair had been a pleasure ride, not work 
at all; and so—he is gone.” 

“And so—he is gone,” said the girl, mimicking her 
tone; “what a tragical manner over a very prosaic cir¬ 
cumstance! Tillie, my child, don’t be so impressi¬ 
ble, or I shall have to tell Hen that our guide has 
taken your affections in lieu of greenbacks.” 

“Rachel!” 

“Matilda!” said the other mildly, looking teas- 
ingly over the rim of the coffee-cup she was slowly 


go 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


emptying. “Don’t startle me with that tone before 
breakfast, and don’t grieve over the exodus of Mr. Gen¬ 
esee Jack. I shall take on my own shoulders the 
duties of guide in his stead, so you need net worry 
about getting home safe; and in the meantime I am 
wofully hungry.” 

She was still a little dizzy as she rose to her feet, 
and very stiff and sore from her ride; but, joking 
over her rheumatic joints, she limped over to where 
the breakfast was spread on a flat rock. 

“There is one way in which I may not be able to 
take Mr. Genesee Jack’s place, in your estimation,” 
she said lowly to Tillie as they were about to join 
the others. “I shall not be able to lell you stories 
of Indian conjurors or sing you Indian love-songs. I 
can’t do anything but whistle.” 

“Hen, she wasn’t the least bit interested about him 
leaving like that!” said Tillie confidentially to her 
husband a few hours later. “She never does seem to 
have much feeling for anything; but after him bring¬ 
ing her back so carefully, and after the chumminess 
there was between them for awhile, one would nat¬ 
urally think—” 

“Of course one would,” agreed her husband laugh¬ 
ingly, “especially if one was an affectionate, match¬ 
making little person like yourself, and altogether a 
woman. But Rache—” and his glance wandered ahead 
to where the slim figure of 'the girl was seen stub¬ 
bornly upright on Betty—“well, Rache never was 
like the rest of the girls at home, and I fancy she 
will never understand much of the sentimental side 
of life. She is too level-headed and practical.” 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. 


91 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE STORM-AND AFTER. 

Olapitski yahka ships. 

Two weeks later storm-clouds were flying low over 
the Kootenai hills and chasing shadows over the 
faces of two equestrians who looked at each other in 
comic dismay. 

“Jim, we are lost!” stated the one briefly. 

“I allow we are, Miss Hardy,” answered the other, 
a boy of about fifteen, who gazed rather dubiously back 
over the way they had come and ahead where a half¬ 
blind trail led up along the mountain. 

“Suppose we pitch pennies to see what direction to 
take,” suggested the girl; but the boy only laughed. 

“Haven’t much time for that. Miss,” he answered. 
“Look how them clouds is crowdin’ us; we’ve got to 
hunt cover or get soaked. This trail goes somewhere; 
maybe to an Injun village. I allow we’d better freeze 
to it.” 

“All right. We’ll allow that we had,” agreed Miss 
Hardy. “Betty, get around here, and get up this hill 1 
I know every step is taking us farther from the ranch, 
but this seems the only direction in which a trail 
leads. Jini, how far do you suppose we are from 
home?” 

“’Bout fifteen miles, I guess,” said the boy, looking 
blue. 

“And we haven’t found the lost sheep?” 

“No, we haven’t.” 


92 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“And we have got lost?” 

“Yes.” 

“Jim, I don’t believe we are a howling success as 
sheep farmers.” 

“I don’t care a darn about the sheep just now,” 
declared Jim. “What I want to know is where we are 
to sleep to-night.” 

“Oh, you want too much,” she answered briskly; 
“I am content to sit up all night, if I only can find a 
dry place to stay in—do you hear that?” as the 
thunder that had grumbled in the distance now 
sounded its threats close above them. 

“Yes, I hear it, and it means business, too! I wish 
we were at the end of this trail,” he said, urging his 
horse up through the scrubby growth of laurel. 

The darkness was falling so quickly that it was not 
an easy matter to keep the trail; and the wind hiss¬ 
ing through the trees made an open space a thing to 
wish for. Jim, who was ahead, gave a shout as he 
reached the summit of the hill where the trail 
crossed it. 

“We’re right!” he yelled that she might hear his 
voice above the thunders and the wind; “there’s some 
sort of a shanty across there by a big pond; it’s half 
a mile away, an’ the rain’s a-comin’—come on! ” 

And on they went in a wild run to keep ahead of the 
rain-cloud that was pelting its load at them with the 
force of hail. The girl had caught a glimpse of the 
white sheen of a lake or pond ahead of them; the 
shanty she did not wait to pick out from the gloom, 
but followed blindly after Jim, at a breakneck gait, 
until they both brought up short, in the shadow of a 
cabin in the edge of the timber above the lake. 

“Jump off quick and in with you! ” called Jim; and 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. 


93 


without the ceremony of knocking, she pushed open 
the door and dived into the interior. 

It was almost as dark as night. She stumbled 
around until she found a sort of bed in one corner, 
and sat down on it, breathless and wet. The rain 
was coming down in torrents, and directly Jim, with 
the saddles in his arms, came plunging in, shaking 
himself like a water-spaniel. 

“Great guns! But it’s cornin’ down solid,” he 
gasped; “where are you?” 

“Here—I’ve found a bed, so somebody lives here. 
Have you any matches?” 

“I allow I have,” answered Jim, “if they only ain’t 
wet—no, by George, they’re all right.” 

The brief blaze of the match showed him the fire¬ 
place and a pile of wood beside it, and a great osier 
basket of broken bark. “Say, Miss Hardy, we’ve 
struck great luck,” he announced while on his knees, 
quickly starting a fire and fanning it into a blaze 
with his hat;, “I wonder who lives here and where 
they are. Stickin’ to that old trail was a pay streak 
—hey?” 

In the blaze df the fire the room assumed quite a 
respectable appearance. It was not a shanty, as Jim had 
at first supposed, but a substantial log-cabin, fur¬ 
nished in a way to show constant and recent occupation. 

A table made like a wide shelf jutted from the 
wall under the one square window; a bed and two 
chairs that bespoke home manufacture were covered 
by bear-skins; on the floor beside the bed was a 
buffalo-robe; and a large locked chest stood against 
the wall. Beside the fire-place was a cupboard with 
cooking and table utensils, and around the walls hung 
trophies of the hunt. A bow and quiver of arrows and 


94 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


a knotted silken sash hung on one wooden peg, and 
added to a pair of moccasins in the corner, gave an 
Indian suggestion to the occupancy of the cabin, but 
the furnishing in general was decidedly that of a white 
person; to the rafters were fastened some beaver- 
paws and bear-claws, and the skins of three rattle¬ 
snakes were pendent against the wall. 

“Well, this is a queer go! ain’t it?” remarked Jim 
as he walked around taking a survey of the room. 
“Pd like to know who it all belongs to. Did you 
ever hear folks about here speak of old Davy Mac- 
Dougall? ” 

“Yes, I have,” answered the girl, sitting down on 
the buffalo-robe before the fire, to dry her shoulders 
at the blaze. 

“Well, I believe this is his cabin, and we are 
about ten mile from home,” decided the boy. “I 
didn’t think we’d strayed as far north as Scot’s 
Mountain, but I allow this is it.” 

“Well, I wish he would come home and get supper,” 
said the girl, easily adapting herself to any groove 
into which she happened to fall; “but perhaps we 
should have sent him word of our visit. What did 
you do with the horses, Jim?” 

“Put ’em in a shed at the end o’ the house—a 
bang-up place, right on the other side o’ this fire¬ 
place. Whoever lives here keeps either a horse or a 
cow." 

“I hope it’s a cow, and that there’s some milk to 
be had. Jimmy, I wonder if there is anything to eat in 
that cupboard.” 

“I’ve been thinkin’ o’ that myself,” said Jim in 
answer to that insinuating speech. 

“Suppose you do something besides think—suppose 


THE STORM-AND AFTER, 


95 


you look,” suggested the more unscrupulous of the 
foragers; ‘‘I’m hungry.” 

‘‘So am I,” acknowledged Her confederate; ‘‘you an’ 
me is most alike about our eatin’, ain’t we? Mrs. 
Houghton said yesterday I had a terrible appe¬ 
tite. ” 

And the boy at once began making an examination 
of the larder, wondering, as he did so, what the girl 
was laughing at. 

The rain was coming down in torrents through the 
blackness of the night; now and then the lightning 
would vie with the fire in lighting up the room, 
while the thunder seemed at home in that valley of 
the mountain, for its volleys of sound and their 
echoes never ceased. 

Small wonder that anyone’s house would seem a 
home to the two, or that they would have no com¬ 
punction in taking possession of it. 

‘‘There’s coffee here somewhere, I can smell it,” 
announced Jim; ‘‘an’ here’s rice an’ crackers, an’ corn- 
meal, an’dried raspberries, an’potatoes, an’—yes, here’s 
the coffee! Say, Miss Hardy, we’ll have a regular 
feast!” 

‘‘I should say so!” remarked that lady, eying Jim’s 
“find” approvingly; “I think there is a bed of coals here 
at this side of the fire-place that will just fit about 
six of those potatoes—can you eat three, Jim?” 

“Three will do if they’re big enough,” said Jim, 
looking dubiously at the potatoes; “but these ain’t as 
good-sized as some I’ve seen.” 

“Then give me two more; that makes five for you and 
three for me. ” 

“Hadn’t you better shove in a couple more?” asked 
Jim with a dash of liberality. “You know MacDougall 


96 


TOLD IN ^THE HILLS. 


may come back hungry, an’ then we can spare him two 
—that makes ten to roast.” 

“Ten it is!” said the girl, burying two more in the 
ashes as the share of their host. “Jim, see if there 
is any water in here to make coffee with.” 

“Yes, a big jar full,” reported the steward; “an’ 
here is a little crock half full of eggs—prairie-chicken, 
I guess—say, can you make a pone?” 

“I think I can;” and the cook at once rolled up the 
sleeves of her riding-dress, and Jimmy brought out 
the eggs and some bits of salt meat—evidently bear- 
meat—that was hung from the ceiling of the cupboard; 
and at once there began a great beating of eggs and 
stirring up of a corn pone; and some berries were set 
on the coals to stew in a tin-cup, and the water put 
to boil for the coffee, and an iron skillet with a lid 
utilized as an oven; and the fragrance of the pre¬ 
paring eatables filled the little room and prompted 
the hungry lifting of fids many times ere the fire had 
time to do its work. 

“That pone’s a ‘Aandy! ’ ” said Jim, taking a peep at 
it; “it’s gettin’ as brown as—as your hair; an’ them 
berries is done, an’ ain’t it time to put in the coffee?” 

Acting on this hint, the coffee, beaten into a froth 
with an egg, had the boiling water poured over it, 
and set bubbling and aromatic on the red coals. 

“You mayn’t be much use to find strayed-off stock,” 
said Jim deliberately, with his head on one side, as 
he watched the apparent ease with which the girl 
managed her primitive cooking apparatus; “but I tell 
you—you ain’t no slouch when it comes to gettin’ 
grub ready, and gettin’ it quick.” 

“Better keep your compliments until you have 
tried to eat some of the cooking,” suggested Miss 


THE STORM-And AFTER. 


97 


Hardy, on her knees before the fire. “I believe the 
pone is done.” 

“Then we’ll dish-up in double-quick,” said Jim, 
handing her two tin pans for the pone and potatoes. 
“We’ll have to set the berries on in the tin—by 
George! what’s that?” 

“That” was the neigh of Betty in the shed by the 
chimney, and an answering one from somewhere out 
in the darkness. Through the thunder and the rain 
they had heard no steps, but Jim’s eyes were big with 
suspense as he listened. 

“My horse has broke loose from the shed,” he said 
angrily, reaching for his hat; “and how the dickens 
I’m to find him in this storm I don’t know.” 

“Don’t be so quick to give yourself a shower-bath,” 
suggested the girl on the floor; “he won’t stray far off, 
and may be glad to come back to the shed; and then 
again,” she added, laughing, “it may be MacDougall.” 

Jim looked rather blankly at the supper on the 
hearth and the girl who seemed so much at home 
on the buffalo-robe. 

“By George! it might be,” he said slowly; and for 
the first time the responsibility of their confiscations 
loomed up ' before him. “Say,” he added uneasily, 
“have you any money?” 

“Money?” she repeated inquiringly; and then seeing 
the drift of his thoughts, “Oh, no, I haven’t a cent.” 

“They say MacDougall is an old crank,” he insin¬ 
uated, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, to 
see what effect the statement would have on her. But 
she only smiled in an indifferent way. “An’—an’ ef he 
wants the money cash down for this lay-out”—and he 
glanced comprehensively over the hearth—“well, I 
don’t know what to say.” 

7 


98 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“That’s easily managed,’’said the girl coolly; “you 
can leave your horse in pawn." 

“An’ foot it home ten miles?—not if I know it!" 
burst out Jim; “an’ besides it’s Hardy’s horse." 

“Well, then, leave the saddle, and ride home bare- 
back." 

“I guess not!" protested Jim, with the same aggress¬ 
ive tone; “that’s my own saddle.” 

After this unanswerable reason, there was an 
expectant silence in the room for a little while, that 
was finally broken by Jim saying ruefully: 

“If that is MacDougall, heMl have to have them 
two potatoes.” 

Rachel’s risible tendencies were not proof against 
this final fear of Jim’s, and her laughter drowned 
his grumblings, and also footsteps without, of which 
neither heard a sound until the door was flung open 
and a man walked into the room. 

Jim looked at him with surprised eyes, and managed 
to stammer, “How are you?" for the man was so far 
from his idea of old Davy MacDougall that he was 
staggered. 

But Miss Hardy only looked up, laughing, from her 
position by the fire, and drew the coffee-pot from the 
coals with one hand, while she reached the other to 
the new-comer. 

"Klahozvya! Mr. Jack," she said easily; “got wet, 
didn’t you? You’ve just got here in time for supper.” 

“You!” was all he said; and Jim thought they were 
both crazy, by the way the man got across the room 
to her and took her one hand in both his as if he never 
intended letting it go or saying another w’^ord, con¬ 
tent only to hold her hands and look at her. And 
Miss Rachel Hardy’s eyes were not idle either. 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. 


99 


Yes, of course it’s I,” she said, slipping her hand 
away after a little, and dropping her face that had 
flushed pink in the firelight; “I don’t look like a 
ghost, do I? You would not find a ghost at such 
prosaic work as getting supper.” 

“Getting supper?” he said, stepping back a bit and 
glancing around. For the first time he seemed to 
notice Jim, or have any remembrance of anything 
but the girl herself. “You mean that you two have 
been getting supper alone?” 

“Yes, Jim and I. Mr. Jack, this is my friend Jim, 
from the ranch. We tried to guide each other after 
sheep, and both got lost; and as you did not get here 
in time to cook supper, of course we had to get it 
alone.” 

“But I mean was there no one else here?”—he still 
looked a little dazed and perplexed, his eyes roving 
uneasily about the room—“I—a —a young Indian—” 

“No!” interrupted the girl eagerly. “Do you mean 
the Indian boy who brought me that black bear’s 
skin? I knew you had sent it, though he would not 
say a word—looked at me as if he did not understand 
Chinook when I spoke.” 

“May be he didn’t understand yours,” remarked Jim ¬ 
my, edging past her to rake the potatoes out of the 
ashes. 

“But he wasn’t here when we came,” continued Miss 
Hardy. “The house was deserted and in darkness when 
we found it, just as the storm came on in earnest.” 

“And the fire?” said Genesee. 

“There was none,” answered the boy. “The ashes 
were stone-cold. I noticed it; so your Injun hadn’t 
had any fire all day.” 

“All day!” repeated the man, going to the door and 


lOO 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


looking out. “That means a long tramp, and to¬ 
night—” 

“And to-night is a bad one for a tramp back, “ added 

Jim- 

“Yes,” agreed Genesee, “that’s what I was thinking.” 

If there was a breath of relief in the words, both 
were too occupied with the potatoes in the ashes to 
notice it. Directly he shut the door as the wind sent 
a gust of rain inside, and then turned again to the 
pirates at the fire-place. 

“What did you find to cook?” he asked, glancing at the 
“lay-out,” as Jim called it. “I haven’t been here since 
yesterday, and am afraid you didn’t find much—any 
fresh meat?” 

Miss Hardy shook her head. 

“Salt meat and eggs, that’s all,” she said. 

“Not by a long shot it ain’t, Mr.—Mr. Jack,” said 
Jim, contradicting her flatly. “She’s got a first-class 
supper; an’ by George! she can make more out o’ 
nothin’ than any woman I ever seen.” In his enthusi¬ 
asm over Rachel he was unconscious of the slur on 
their host’s larder. “1 never knowed she was such a 
rattlin’ cook!” 

“I know I have never been given credit for my every¬ 
day, wearing qualities,” said the girl, without looking 
up from the eggs she was scrambling in the bake- 
oven of a few minutes before. The words may have 
been to Jim, but by tlie man’s eyes he evidently 
thought they were at Genesee—such a curious, pained 
look as that with which he watched her every move¬ 
ment, every curve of form and feature, that shone in 
the light of the fire. Once she saw the look, and her 
own eyes dropped under it for a moment, but that 
independence of hers would not let it be for long. 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. 


lOI 


“Do you want a share of our supper?” she asked, 
looking up at him quizzically. 

“Yes,” he answered, but his steady, curious gaze at 
her showed that his thoughts were not of the question 
or answer. 

Not so Jim. That young gentleman eyed dubiously 
first the lay-out and then Genesee’s physique, trying 
to arrive at a mental estimate of his capacity and the 
probable division of the pone and potatoes. 

“How about that saddle, now, Jim?” asked the girl. 
Whereupon Jim began a pantomime enjoining silence, 
back of the chair of the man, who appeared more like 
a guest than host—perhaps because it was so hard to 
realize that it was really his hearth where that girl 
sat as if at home. She noticed his preoccupation, 
and remarked dryly: 

“You really don’t deserve a share of our cooking 
after the way you deserted us before! —not even a 
klahozvya when you took the trail. ” 

“You’re right, I reckon; but don’t you be the one 
to blame me for that,” he answered, in a tone that 
made the command a sort of plea; and Miss Hardy 
industriously gave her attention to the supper. 

“It’s all ready,” announced Jim, as he juggled a pan 
of hot pone from one hand to another on the way to 
the table. “Ouch! but it’s hot! Say, wouldn’t some 
fresh butter go great with this!” 

“Didn’t you find any?” asked Genesee, waking to the 
practical things of life at Jim’s remark. 

“Find any? No! Is there any?” asked that little 
gormand, with hope and doubt chasing each other over 
his rather thin face. 

“I don’t know —there ought to be; ” and lifting a loose 
board in the floor by the cupboard, he drew forth a 


102 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


closely-woven reed basket, and on a smooth stone in 
• the bottom lay a lar^e piece of yellow butter, around 
which Jim performed a sort of dance of adoration. 

What a supper that was, in the light of the pitch- 
pine and the fierce accompaniment of the outside tem¬ 
pest! Jim vow^ed that never were there potatoes so 
near perfection,in their brown jackets and their steam¬ 
ing, powdery flakes; and the yellow pone, and the 
amber coffee, and the cool slices of butter that Gene¬ 
see told them was from a,n Indian village thirty miles 
north. And to the table were brought such tremendous 
appetites! at least by the cook and steward of the 
party. And above all, what a delicious atmosphere of 
unreality pervaded the whole thing! Again and again 
Genesee’s eyes seemed to say, “Can it be you?’’ and 
grew warm as her quizzical glances told him it could 
be no one else. 

And as the night wore on, and the storm continued, 
he brought in armfuls of wood from the shed without, 
and in the talk round the fire his manner grew more 
assured—more at home with the surroundings that were 
yet his own. Long they talked, until Jim, unable to 
think of any more questions to ask of silver-mining 
and bear-hunting, slipped down in the corner, with his 
head on a saddle, and went fast asleep. 

“Pll sit up and keep the fire going,” said Genesee, 
at this sign of the late hour; “but you had better get 
what rest you can on that bunk there—you’ll need it 
for your ride in the morning.” 

“In the morning! ” repeated the girl coolly; “that 
sounds as if you are determined our visit shall end as 
soon as possible, Mr. Genesee Jack.” 

“Don’t talk like that!” he said, looking across at 
her; “you don’t know anything about it.” And getting 


THE STORM—AND AFTER. 


103 


Up hastily, he walked back and forward across the 
room; once stopping suddenly, as if with some deter¬ 
mination to speak, and then, as she looked up at him, 
his courage seemed to vanish, and he turned his face 
away from her and walked to the door. 

The storm had stilled its shrieks, and was dying 
away in misty moans down the dip in the hills, 
taking the rain with it. The darkness was intense 
as he held the door open and looked into the black 
vault, where not a glimmer of a star or even a gray 
cloud could be seen. 

“It’s much nicer in-doors,” decided Miss Hardy, mov¬ 
ing her chair against the chimney-piece, and propping 
herself there to rest. 

“Jim had better lie on the bed, he is so sleepy, and 
I am not at *all so; this chair is good enough for me, 
if you don’t mind.” 

He picked the sleeping boy up without a word, and 
laid him on the couch of bear-skins without waking 
him. 

“There ain’t much I do mind,” he said, as he came 
back to the fire-place; “that is, if you are only comfort¬ 
able. " 

“I am—very much so,” she answered, “and would 
be so entirely if you only seemed a little more at 
home. As it is, I have felt all evening as if we are 
upsetting your peace of mind in some way—not as if 
we are unwelcome, mind you, but just as if you are 
worried about us. ” 

“That so?” he queried, not looking at her; “that’s 
curious. I didn’t know I was looking so, and I’m 
sure you and the boy are mighty welcome to my cabin 
or anything in the world I can do for you.” 

There was no mistaking the heartiness of the man’s 


104 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


words, and she smiled her gratitude from the niche in 
the corner, where, with her back toward the blaze, 
only one side of her face was outlined by the light. 

“Very well,” she said amicably; “you can do some¬ 
thing for me just now—open the door for a little 
while; the room seems close with being shut up so 
tight from the rain—and then make yourself comfort¬ 
able there on that buffalo-robe before the fire. I 
remember your lounging habits in camp, and a chair 
don’t seem to quite suit you. Yes, that looks much 
better, as if you were at home again.” 

Stretched on the robe, with her saddle on which 
to prop up his shoulders, he lay, looking in the red 
coals, as if forgetful of her speech or herself. But 
at last he repeated her words: 

“At home again! Do you know there’s a big lot of 
meaning in them words. Miss, especially to a man 
who hasn’t known what home meant for years? and 
to-night, with white people in my cabin and a white 
woman to make things look nafural, I tell you it 
makes me remember what home used to be, in a way 
I have not seen for many a day.” 

“Then I’m glad I strayed off into the storm and 
your cabin,” said the girl promptly; “because a man 
shouldn’t forget his home and home-folks, especially 
if the memories would be good ones. People need 
all the good memories they can keep with them in 
this world; they’re a sort of steering apparatus in a 
life-boat, and help a man make a straight journey 
toward his future.” 

“That’s so,” he said, and put his hand up over his 
eyes as if to shield them from the heat of the fire. 
He was lying full in the light, while she was in the 
shadow. He could scarcely see her features, with her 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. IO5 

head drawn back against the wall like that. And 
the very fact of knowing herself almost unseen—a 
voice, only, speaking to him—gave her courage to say 
things as she could not have said them at another 
time. 

“Do you know,” she said, as she sat there watching 
him with his eyes covered by his hand—“do you know 
that once or twice when we have been together I have 
wished I was a man, that I could say some things to 
you that a woman or a girl—that is, most girls—can’t say 
very well? One of the things is that I would be glad 
to hear of you getting out of this life here; there is 
something wrong about it to you—something that 
doesn’t suit you; I don’t know what it is, but I can 
see you are not the man you might be—and ought to 
be. I’ve thought of it often since I saw you last, and 
sometimes—yes—I’ve been sorry for my ugl}^ manner 
toward you. White people, when they meet in these 
out-of-the-way places in the world, ought to be as so 
many brothers and sisters to each other; and there 
w^ere times, often, when I might have helped you to 
feel more at home among us—when I might have been 
more kind.” 

“More kind? Good God!” whispered the man. 

“And I made up my mind,” continued the girl cour¬ 
ageously, “that if I ever saw you again, I was going to 
speak plainly to you about yourself and dissatisfac¬ 
tion with yourself that you spoke of that day in the 
laurel thicket. I don’t know what the cause of it is, 
and I don’t want to, but if it is any wrong that you’ve 
done in—in the past, a bad way to atone is by bury¬ 
ing oneself alive, along with all energy and ambi¬ 
tion. Now, you may think me presuming to say these 
things to you like this; but I’ve been wishing some- 


io6 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


body would say them to you, and there seems no one 
here to do it but me, and so—” 

She stopped, not so much because she had finished 
as that she felt herself failing utterly in saying the 
things she had really intended to say. It all sounded 
very flat and commonplace in her own ears—not at 
all the words to carry any influence to anyone, and 
so she had stopped helplessly and looked at him. 

“Pm glad it is you that says them,” he answered, 
still without looking at her, ‘‘because you’ve got the 
stuff in you for such a good, square friend to a man— 
the sort of woman a person could go to in trouble, 
even if they hadn’t the passport of a saint to take 
with them; and I wish—I wish I could tell you 
to-night something of the things that you’ve started 
on. If I could—” he stopped a moment. 

‘‘I suppose any other girl—” she began in a depre¬ 
cating tone; but he dropped his hand from his eyes 
and looked at her. 

‘‘You’re not like other girls,” he said with a great 
fondness in his eyes, ‘‘and that’s just the reason I feel 
like telling you all. You’re not like any girl I’ve 
ever known. I’ve often felt like speaking to you as 
if you were a boy—an almighty aggravatin’ slip of a 
boy sometimes; and yet—” 

He lay silent for a little while, so long that the 
girl wondered if he had forgotten what he was to try 
and tell her. The warmth after the rain had made 
them neglect the fire, and its blaze had dropped low 
and lower, until she was entirely in the shadow—only 
across the hearth and his form did the light fall. 

“And yet,” he continued, as if there had been no 
break in his speech, “there’s been so many a ‘ night 
I’ve dreamed of seeing you sit here by this fire-place 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. 


107 


just as I’ve seen you to-night; just as bright like and 
contented, as if all the roughness and poorness of it 
was nothing to you, or else a big joke for you to make 
fun of; and then—well,., them times you didn’t seem 
like a boy, but—” 

Again he stopped. 

“Never mind what I’m like,” suggested the girl; 
“that don’t matter. I guess everyone is a different 
person with different people; but you wanted to tell 
me something of yourself, didn’t you?” 

“That’s what I’m trying to get at,” he answered, 
“but it ain’t easy. I’ve got to go back so far to start 
at the beginning—back ten years, to reckon up mis¬ 
takes. JThat’s a big job, my girl—my girl.” 

The lingering repetition of those words opened the 
girl’s eyes wide with a sudden memory of that moon¬ 
lit night in the gulch. Then she had not fancied 
those whispered words! they had been uttered, and 
by his voice; and those fancied tears of Tillie’s, 
and—the kisses! 

So thick came those thronging memories, that she 
did not notice his long, dreamy silence. She was 
thinking of that night, and all the sweet, vague sugges¬ 
tion in it that had vanished with the new day. She 
was comparing its brief charm with this meeting of 
to-night that was ignoring it so effectually; that was 
as the beginning of a new knowledge of each other, 
with the commonplace and practical as a basis. 

Her reverie was broken sharply by the sight of a 
form that suddenly, silently, appeared in the door¬ 
way. Her first impulse of movement or speech was 
checked as the faint, flickering light shifted across 
the visage of the new-comer, and she recognized the 
Indian girl who had hidden behind the ponies. A 


io8 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


smile was on the dark face as she saw Genesee lying 
there, asleep he must have looked from the door, 
and utterly oblivious of her entrance. Her soft moc¬ 
casins left no sound as she crossed the floor and 
dropped down beside him, laying one arm about his 
throat. He clasped the hand quickly and opened his 
half-shut eyes. Did he, for an instant, mistake it for 
another hand that had slipped into his that one 
night? Whatever he thought, his face was like that 
of death as he met the eyes of the Indian girl. 

“Talapa!” he muttered, and his fingers closing on 
her wrist must have twisted it painfully, by the quick 
change in her half-Indian, half-French face. He 
seemed hardly conscious of it. Just then he* looked 
at her as if she was in reality that Indian deity of 
the inferno from whom her name was derived. 

"Hyak nika kelapie!" (I returned quickly), she 
whined, as if puzzled at her reception, and darting 
furious sidelong glances from the black eyes that had 
the width between them that is given to serpents. 
''Nah!" she ejaculated angrily, as no answer was made 
to her; and freeing her hand, she rose to her feet. She 
had not once seen the white girl in the shadow. Coming 
from the darkness into the light, her eyes were blinded 
to all but the one plainly seen figure. But as she rose 
to her feet, and Genesee with her, Rachel stooped to 
the pile of wood beside her, and throwing some bits 
of pine on the fire, sent the sparks flying upward, and 
a second later a blaze of light flooded the room. 

The action was a natural, self-possessed one—it 
took a great deal to upset Miss Hardy’s equaniir'ty 
—and she coolly sat down again facing the astonishe 1 
Indian girl and Genesee; but her face was very white 
though she said not a word. 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. 


lOg 

"There is no need for me to try and remember the 
beginning, is there," said Genesee bitterly, looking 
at her with sombre, moody eyes, "since the end has 
told its own story? This is—my—my—” 

Did he say wife? She never could be quite sure 
of the word, but she knew he tried to say it. 

His voice sounded smothered, unnatural, as it had 
that day in the laurel thicket "when he had spoken of 
locking himself out from a heaven. She understood 
what he meant now. 

"No, there is no need,” she'said, as quietly as she 
could, though her heart seemed choking her and her 
hands trembled. "I hope all will come right for 
you sometime, and—I understand now.” 

Did she really understand, even then, or know the 
moral lie the man had told, that yet, in his abase¬ 
ment, he felt was easier to have her believe than the 
truth? 

Talapa stood drying her moccasins at the fire, as if 
not understanding their words; but the slow, cunning 
smile crept back to her lips as she recognized the 
white girl, and no doubt remembered that she and 
Genesee had ridden together that day at the camp. 

He picked up his hat and walked to the door, 
after her kindly words, putting his hand out ahead 
of him in a blind sort of way, and then stopped, say¬ 
ing tc her gently: 

"Get what rest you can—try to, anyway; you will 
need ii." And then, with some words in Indian to 
Talapa, he went out into the night. 

His words to Talapa were of their guests comfort, 
for that silent individual at once began preparations 
for be<l-jriaking on her behalf, until Rachel told her 
in Chinook that she would sleep where she was. 


no 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


in the chair. And there she sat through the night, 
feeling that the eyes of the Indian girl were never 
taken from her as the motionless form lay rolled in 
a blanket on the floor, much as it had rolled itself up 
on the grass that other day. 

Jim was throned in royal state, for he had the bed 
all to himself, and in the morning opened his eyes 
in amazement as he smelled the coffee and saw the 
Indian girl moving about as if at home. 

“Yes, we’ve got a new cook, Jim,” said Miss 
Hardy, from the window; “so we are out of work, you 
and I. Sleep good?” 

“Great!” said Jim, yawning widely. “Where’s Mr. 
Jack?” 

“Out, somewhere,” returned the girl comprehen¬ 
sively. She did not add that he had been out all night, 
and Jim was too much interested with the prospect of 
breakfast to be very curious. 

He had it, as he had the bed—all to himself. Miss 
Hardy was not hungry, for a wonder, and Talapa dis¬ 
appeared after it was placed on the table. The girl 
asked Jim if that was Indian etiquette, but Jim didn’t 
know what etiquette was, so he couldn’t tell. 

Through that long vigil of the night there had 
returned to the girl much of her light, ironical manner; 
but the mockery was more of herself and her own 
emotions than aught else, for when Genesee brought 
the horses to the door and she looked in his face, any 
thought of jesting with him was impossible; the signs 
of a storm were on him as they were on the mountains 
in the morning light. 

“I will guide you back to the home trail,” he said, 
as he held Betty at the door for her to mount. 

“Go in and get some breakfast,” was all the answer 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. 


Ill 


she made him. But he shook his head, and reached 
his hand to help her. 

“What’s the matter with everyone this morning?” 
asked Jim. "There hasn’t been a bite of breakfast eaten 
only what I got away with myself.” 

Genesee glanced in at the table. “Would you eat 
nothing because it was mine?” he asked lowly. 

“I did not because I could not,” she said in the 
same tone; and then added, good-humoredly: “Despite 
Jim’s belief in my appetite, it does go back on me 
sometimes—and this is one of the times. It’s too 
early in the morning for breakfast. Are you. going 
with us on foot?” as she noticed Mowitza, unsaddled, 
grazing about the green turf at the edge of the tim¬ 
ber. 

“Yes,” he answered, "I have not far to go.” 

She slipped past him, and gathering her dress up from 
the wet grass, walked over to where Mowitza browsed. 
The beautiful mare raised her head and came over 
the grass with long, light steps, as if recognizing the 
low call of her visitor; and resting her head on the 
girl’s shoulder, there seemed to be a conversation 
between them perfectly satisfactory to each; while 
Mowitza’s owner stood looking at them with a world 
of conflicting emotions in his face. 

“I have been saying good-bye to Mowitza,” she 
remarked, as she rejoined them and mounted Betty, 
“and we are both disconsolate. She carried me out of 
danger once, and I am slow to forget a favor.” 

It was a very matter-of-fact statemient; she was a 
matter-of-fact young woman that morning. But Gen¬ 
esee felt that she was trying to let him know her 
memory would keep only the best of her knowledge of 
him. It was an added debt to that which he already 


I 12 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


owed her, and he walked in silence at her horse’s 
head, finding no words to express his thoughts, and 
not daring to use them if he had. 

The valleys were wrapped in the whitest of mists as 
they got a glimpse of them from the heights. The sun 
was struggling through one veil only to be plunged 
into another, and all the cedar wood was in the drip, 
drip of tears that follow terripests. Where was all 
that glory of the east at sunrise which those two had 
once watched from a mountain not far from this? In 
the east, as they looked now, there were only faint 
streaks of lavender across the sky—of lavender the 
color of mourning. 

He directed Jim the way of the trail, and then 
turned to her. 

“I don’t know what to say to you—or just how low 
you will thin-k me,” he said in a miserable sort of 
way. ‘‘When I think of—of some things, I wonder that 
you even speak to me this morning—God ! I’m ashamed 
to look you in the face!” 

And he looked it. All the cool assurance was gone 
that had been a prominent phase of his personality 
that evening when Hardy met him first. His hand¬ 
some, careless face and the independent head were 
drooped before hers as his broad-brimmed hat was 
pulled a little lower over his eyes. 

Some women are curious, and this one, whom he had 
thought unlike all others, rather justified his belief, as 
she bent over in |he saddle and lifted the cover from 
his dark hair. 

‘‘Don’t be!” she said gently—and as he looked up at 
her she held out her hand —"'jiika tillikum' (my 
friend) ; and the sweetness possible in the words had 
never been known by him until she uttered them so. 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. 


II3 

“My friend, don’t feel like that, and don’t think me 
quite a fool. I’ve seen enough of life to know that 
few men under the same circumstances would try as 
hard to be honest as you did, and if you failed in 
some ways, the fault was as much mine as yours.” 

“Rachel!” It was the first time he had ever called 
her that. 

“Yes, I had some time to think about it last night,” 
she said, with a little ironical smile about her lips; 
“and the conclusion I’ve come to is that we should 
afford to be honest this morning, and not—not so very 
much ashamed;” and then she hurried on in her speech, 
stumbling a little as the clasp of his hand made her 
unsteady through all her determination. “I will not 
see you again, perhaps ever. Biit I want you to 
know that I have faith in you making a great deal of 
your life if you try; you have the right foundations— 
strong will and a good principle. Mentally, you have 
been asleep here in the hills—don’t find fault with 
your awakening. And don’t feel so—so remorseful 
about—that night. There are some things people do 
and think that they can’t help—we couldn’t help 
that night; and so—good-bye—Jack.” 

“God bless you, girl!” were the heart-felt, earnest 
words that answered her good-bye; and with a last 
firm clasp of hands, she turned Betty’s head toward the 
trail Jim had taken, and rode away under the cedar 
boughs. 

Genesee stood bare-headed, with a new light in his 
eyes as he watched her—the dawn of some growing 
determination. 

Once she looked back, and seeing him still there, 
touched her cap in military fashion, and with a smile 
disappeared in the wet woods. And as he turned 
8 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


II 4 

away there crept from the shrubbery at the junction 
of the trails Talapa, who, with that slow, knowing 
smile about her full lips, stole after him—in her 
dusky silence a very shadow of a man’s past that 
grows heavy and wide after the noon is dead, and 
bars out lives from sunny doors where happiness 
might be found. His head was bent low, thinking— 
thinking as he walked back to the cabin that had once 
held at least a sort of content—a content based on one 
side of his nature. Had the other died, or was it 
only asleep? And she had told him not to find fault 
with his awakening—she! He had never before real¬ 
ized the wealth or loss one woman could make to the 
world. 

“Ashamed to look her in the face!” His own words 
echoed in his ears as he walked under the wet leaves, 
with the shadow of the shame skulking unseen after 
him; and then, little by little, the sense of her fare¬ 
well came back to him, and running through it, that 
strong thread of faith in hin^^ yet, making his life 
more worth living. 

“D—d little in my present outfit for her to build 
any foundation for hope on,” he muttered grimly, as 
he saddled and bridled Mowitza, as if in hot haste to 
be gone somewhere, and then sat down on the door¬ 
step as if forgetful of the intention. 

Talapa slipped past him with an armful of bark for 
the fire. Not a word had passed between them since 
the night before, and the girl watched him covertly 
from under drooped lids. Was she trying to fathom 
his meditations, or determine how far they were to 
affect her own future? For as the birds foretell by 
the signs in the air the change of the summer, so Tal¬ 
apa, through the atmosphere of the cabin that morn- 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. 


II5 

ing, felt approach the end of a season that had been 
to her luxurious with comforts new to her; and though 
the Indian blood in her veins may have disdained the 
adjuncts of civilization, yet the French tide that 
crossed it carried to her the Gallic yearning for the 
dainties and delicacies of life. To be sure, one would 
not find many of those in a back-woodsman’s cabin; 
but all content is comparative, and Talapa’s basis of 
comparison was the earthen floor of a thronged “tepee,” 
or wigwam, where blows had been more frequent than 
square meals; and being a thing feminine, her affec¬ 
tions turned to this white man of the woods who 
could give her a floor of boards and a dinner-pot never 
empty, and moreover, being of the sex feminine, those 
bonds of affection were no doubt securely fastened— 
bonds welded in a circle—endless. 

At least those attributes, vaguely remembered, are 
usually conceded to the more gentle half of human¬ 
ity, and I give Talapa the benefit of the belief, as her 
portrait has been of necessity set in the shadows, and 
has need of all the high lights that can be found for 
it. And whatever she may have lacked from a high- 
church point of view, she had at least enviable self- 
possession. Whatever tumult of wounded feeling 
there may have been in this daughter of the forest, 
she slunk around sedately, with an air that in a white 
woman would be called martyr-like, and said nothing. 

It was as well, perhaps, that she had the rare gift 
of silence, for the man at the door, with his chin rest¬ 
ing grimly on his fists, did not seem at all sympa¬ 
thetic, or in the humor to fit himself to anyone’s 
moods. The tones of that girl’s voice were still 
vibrating over chords in his nature that disturbed 
him. He did not even notice Talapa’s movements 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


116 

until she ceased them by squatting down with native 
grace by the fire-place, and then— 

“Get up off that!” he roared, in a,voice that has 
tened Talapa’s rising considerably. 

“That” was the buffalo-robe on which the other girl 
had throned herself the night before; and what a pict¬ 
ure she had made in* the fire-light! 

Genesee in two strides crossed the floor, and grab¬ 
bing the robe, flung it over his shoulder. No, it was 
not courteous to unseat a lady with so little ceremony 
—it may not even have been natural to him, so many 
things are not natural to us human things that are yet 
so true. • 

“And why so?^” asked Talapa sullenly, her back 
against the wall as if in a position to show fight; that 
is, she said "Pe-kah-taf" but, for the benefit of the 
civilized reader, the more ordinary English is given— 
“And why so?” 

Genesee looked at her a moment from head to foot, 
but the scrutiny resulted in silence—no remark. At 
length he walked back to the chest against the wall, 
and unlocking it, drew out an account-book, between 
the leaves of which were some money orders; two of 
them he took out, putting the rest in his pocket. 
Then, writing a signature on those two—not the name 
of Jack Genesee, by the way—he turned to Mistress 
Talapa, who had slid from the wall down on the floor 
minus the buffalo-robe. 

“Here!” he said tersely. “I am going away. Klat- 
azvah si-ah — do you understand?” And then, fishing 
some silver out of his pocket, he handed it to her 
with the notes. “Take these to the settlement—to 
the bank-store. They’ll give you money—money to 
live all winter. Live in the cabin if you want; only 


THE STORM—AND AFTER. 


II 7 

get out in the spring—do you hear? I will want it 
myself then—and I want it alone.” 

Without comment, Talapa reached up and took the 
money, looking curiously at the notes, as if to decipher 
the meaning in the pictured paper, and then: 

"Nika wake tikegh Talapa?” she queried, but with 
nothing in her tone to tell if she cared whether he 
wanted her or not. 

“Not by a—” he began energetically, and then, “you 
are your own boss now,” he added, more quietly. “Go 
where you please, only you’d better keep clear of the 
old gang, for I won’t buy you from them again— 
kumtuksT' 

Talapa nodded that she understood, her eyes roving 
about the cabin, possibly taking note of the wealth 
that she had until spring to revel in or filch from. 

Genesee noticed that mental reckoning. 

“Leave these things alone,” he said shortly “Use 
them, but leave them here. If any of them are gone 
when I get back—well, Pll go after them.” 

And throwing the robe again over his arm, he strode 
out through the door, mounted Mowitza, and rode away. 

It was not a sentimental finale to an idyl of the 
wood, but by the time the finale is reached, the aver¬ 
age human specimen has no sentiment to waste. Had 
they possessed any^o begin with? 

It was hard to tell whether Talapa was crushed by 
the cold cruelty of that leave-taking, or whether she 
was indifferent; that very uncertainty is a charm 
exerted over us by those conservative natures that 
lock within themselves wrath or joy where we ordinary 
mortals give expression to ours with all the language 
possessed by us, and occasionally borrow some adjec¬ 
tives that would puzzle us to give a translation of. 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


118 

Talapa sat where he left her, not moving except 
once to shy a pine knot at a rat by the cupboard—and 
hit it, too, though she did belong to the sex divine. 
So she sat, pensively dribbling the silver coin from 
hand to hand, until the morning crept away and the 
sun shone through the mists. 

What was it that at last awakened her from an 
apparent dreamland—the note of that bird whistling 
in the forest in very gladness that the sun shone 
again? Evidently so, and the Indian blood in her 
veins had taught her the secret of sympathy with the 
wild things, for she gave an answering call, half voice, 
half whistle. Silence for a little, and then again from 
the timber came that quavering note, with the rising 
inflection at the finish that was so near an interroga¬ 
tion. 

It brought Talapa to her feet, and going to the door, 
she sent a short, impatient call that a little later was 
answered by the appearance of a comely buck—one of 
the order of red men—who lounged down the little 
incline with his head thrust forward as if to scent 
danger if any was about; but a few words from the 
girl assuring him that the coast was clear—the fort 
unguarded—gave him more an air of assurance, as he 
stepped across the threshold and squatted down on 
the side of the bed. % 

“Genesee gone?” he queried in the musical medley 
of consonants. 

Talapa grunted an assent, with love in her eyes for 
the noble specimen on the bed. 

“Gone far—gone all time—till spring,” she commu¬ 
nicated, as if sure of being the giver of welcome news. 
“House all mine—everything mine—all winter.” 

“Ugh! ” was all the sound given in answer to the 


THE STORM-AND AFTER. 


II9 

information; but the wide mouth curved upward ever 
so slightly at the corners, and coupled with the inter¬ 
rogative grunt, expressed, no doubt, as much content as 
generally falls to the lot of individual humanity.^ One 
of his boots hurt him, or rather the moccasins which 
he wore with leggings, and above them old blue pan¬ 
taloons and a red shirt; the moccasin was ripped, and 
without ceremony he loosened it and kicked it toward 
Talapa. 

"Maniook tipshin," he remarked briefly; and by that 
laconic order to sew his moccasin, Skulking Brave 
virtually took possession of Genesee’s cabin and Gen¬ 
esee’s squaw. 

Through the gray shadows of that morning Rachel 
and Jim rode almost in silence down the mountain 
trail. The memory of the girl was too busy for speech, 
and the frequent yawns of Jim showed that a longer 
sleep would have been appreciated by him. 

“Say,” he remarked at last, as the trail grew wide 
enough for them to ride abreast, “everything was jolly 
back there at Mr. Jack’s last night, but I’m blest if 
it was this morning. The breakfast wasn’t anything 
to brag of, an’ the fire was no good, an’ the fog made 
the cabin as damp as rain when the door was open, 
an’ he was glum an’ quiet, an’ you wasn’t much bet¬ 
ter. Say, was it that Injun cook o’ his you was 
afeared to eat after?” 

“Not exactly,” she answered with a little laugh; 
“what an observer you are, Jim! I suppose the atmos¬ 
phere of the cabin was the effect of the storm last 
night. ” 

“What? Well, the storm wasn’t much worse to 
plow through last night than the wet timber this 
morning,” he answered morosely; “but say, here’s the 


120 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


sun coming out at last—by George! How the wind 
lifts the fog when it gets started. Look at it!” And 
then, as the sunlight really crept in a great shimmer 
through the pines, he added: ‘‘It might just as well 
have come earlier, or else kept away altogether, for 
we’re as wet now as we can get.” 

‘‘Be thankful that it shines at all, Jim.” 

‘‘Oh, the shine’s all right, but it shines too late.” 

“Yes,” agreed the girl, with a memory of shamed, 
despairing eyes flitting through her brain. ‘‘Yes, it 
always shines too late—for someone.” 

‘‘It’s for two of us this time,” replied grumbling 
Jim, taking her speech literally. ‘‘We’ve had a Nick 
of a time anyway this trip. Why that storm had to 
wait until just the day we got lost, so as we’d get 
wet, an’ straggle home dead beat—an’ without the 
sheep—I can’t see.” 

‘‘No, we can’t see,” said Rachel, with a queer lit¬ 
tle smile. ‘‘Perhaps—perhaps it’s all because this is 
the end instead of the beginning of a cultus corrie." 


PART THIRD. 


“ PRINCE CHARLIE.” 


CHAPTER I. 

IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. 

In the spring that followed, what a spirit of prom¬ 
ise and enterprise was abroad on the Hardy ranch! 
What multitudes of white lambs, uncertain in the 
legs, staggered and tottered about the pasture lands 1 
and what musical rills of joy in the mountain streams 
escaping through the sunshine from their prisons of 
ice! The flowers rose from the dead once more—such 
a fragrant resurrection! slipping from out their damp 
coffins and russet winding-sheets with dauntless heads 
erect, and eager lips open to the breath of promise. 
Some herald must bear to their earth-homes the tid¬ 
ings of how sweet the sun of May is—perhaps the 
snow sprites who are melted into tears at his glances 
and slip out of sight to send him a carpet of many 
colors instead of the spotless white his looks had ban¬ 
ished. It may be so, though only the theory of an 
alien. 

And then the winged choruses of the air! What 
matinees they held in the sylvan places among the 
white blossoms of the dogwood and the feathery tassels 
of the river willow, all nodding, swaying in the soft 
kisses sent by the Pacific from the southwest—soft 
relays of warmth and moisture that moderate those 

I2I 



122 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


western valleys until they are affronted by the rocky 
wall that of old was called by the Indians the Chip- 
pewyan Mountains, but which in our own day, in the 
more poetical language of the usurper, has been 
improved upon and dubbed the “Rockies.” But all the 
commonplaces of those aliens cannot deprive the inac¬ 
cessible, conservative solitudes of their wild charms. 
And after those long months of repression, how warmly 
their smile bursts forth—and how contagious it is! 

Laugh though the world may at the vibrations of 
poet hearts echoing the songs of the youngest of 
seasons, how can they help it? It is never the 
empty vessel that brims over, and with the spring a 
sort of inspiration is wakened in the most prosaic of 
us. The same spirit of change that thrills the sap¬ 
lings with fresh vitality sends through human veins 
a creeping ecstasy of new life. And all its insidious, 
penetrating charm seemed abroad there in the North¬ 
ern-land escaped from under the white cloak of win¬ 
ter. The young grass, fresh from the valley rains, 
warmed into emerald velvet in the sunshine, bor¬ 
dered and braced with yellow buttons of dandelion; 
while the soil was turned over with the ploughs, and 
field and garden stocked with seed for the harvest. 

Energetic, busy days those were after the long 
months of semi-inaction; even the horses were too 
mettlesome for farm drudgery—intoxicated, no doubt, 
by the bracing, free winds that whispered of the few 
scattered droves away off to the north that bore no 
harness and owned no master. All things were rebell¬ 
ious at the long restraint, and were breaking into new 
paths of life for the new season. 

Even a hulking Siwash, with his squaw and chil¬ 
dren, came dragging down the valley in the wake of 


IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. 


123 


the freshets, going to the Reservation south, content 
to go any place where they could get regular meals, 
with but the proviso to be “good Injun.” 

They loafed about the ranch two days, resting, an^^ 
coming in for a share of rations from the Hardy table; 
and the little barefooted “hostiles” would stand about 
the gate and peer in around the posts of the porch, 
saying in insinuating tones: 

“Pale papoose? ” 

Yes, the spirit of the hills and grazing lands had 
crept under the rafters and between the walls, and a 
new life had been given to the world, just as the first 
violets crept sunward. 

And of course no other life was ever quite so 
sweet, so altogether priceless, as this little mite, 
who was already mistress of all she surveyed; and 
Aunty Luce—their one female servant—declared: 

“Them eyes o’ hers certainly do see everything in 
reach of ’em. She’s a mighty peart chile, I’m tellin’ 

ye. ” 

Even Jim had taken to loafing around the house 
more than of old, and showing a good deal of nervous 
irritation if by any chance “she” was allowed to test 
her lungs in the slightest degree. The setter pups 
paled into insignificance, and a dozen times a day he 
would remark to Ivans that it was “the darndest, 
cutest, little customer he ever saw.” 

“Even you have become somewhat civilized, Rachel, 
since baby’s arrival,” remarked Tillie in commenda¬ 
tion. 

Yes, Rachel was still there. At the last moment, 
a few appealing glances from Tillie and some per¬ 
suasive words from Hen had settled the question, 
and a rebellion was declared against taking the home 


124 


TOLD nr THE HILLS. 


trail, and ail the words of the Houghtons fell on bar¬ 
ren soil, for she would not—and she would not. 

“They will never miss me back there in Kentucky,” 
she argued; “there are so many girls tfiere. But out 
here, femininity is at a premium. Let me alone, 
Clara; I may take the prize.” 

“And when am I to tell the folks you will come 
back?” asked Mrs. Houghton, with the purpose of set¬ 
tling on a fixed time and then holding her to it. 

“Just tell them the truth, dear—say you don’t 
know,” answered the girl sweetly. “I may locate a 
claim out here yet and develop into a stock-grower. 
Do not look so sulky. I may be of use here; no one 
needs me in Kentucky.” 

“What of Nard Stevens?” was a final query; at 
which, Rachel no longer smiled—she laughed. 

“Oh, you silly Clara! ” she burst out derisively. 
“You think yourself so wise, and you never see an inch 
beyond that little nose of yours. Nard needs me no 
more than I need him—bless the boy! He’s a good 
fellow; but you can not use him as a trump card in 
this game, my dear. Yes, I know that speech is 
slangy. Give my love to Nard when you see him— 
well, then, my kind regards and best wishes if the 
other term conflicts with your proper spirit, and tell 
him I have located out here to grow up with the 
country. ” 

And through the months that followed she assuredly 
grew to the country at all events; the comparative 
mildness of the winters proving a complete surprise 
to her, as, hearing of the severe weather of the North, 
she had not known that its greatest intensity extends 
only to the eastern wall of the great mountain range, 
and once crossing the divide, the Chinook winds or 


IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. 


125 


currents from the Pacific give the valleys much the 
temperature of our Middle States, or even more mild, 
since the snow-fall in the mountains is generally 
rain in the lowlands. Sometimes, of course, with the 
quick changes that only the wind knows, there would 
come a swoop downward of cold from the direct North, 
cutting through the basins, and driving the Pacific air 
back coastward in a fury, and those fitful gusts were 
to be guarded against for man or beast; and wise were 
growing those eastern prophets in their quickness to 
judge from the heavens whether storm or calm was 
to be with them. 

But despite Clara’s many predictions, the days did 
not grow dull to her, and the ranch was not a prison 
in winter-time. She had too clearly developed the 
faculty of always making the best of her surroundings 
and generally drawing out the best points in the peo¬ 
ple about her. ^ 

It was that trait of hers that first awakened her 
interest in that splendid animal, their guide from the 
Maple range. 

He had disappeared—gone from the Kootenai coun¬ 
try, so they told her. But where? or for what? That 
none could answer. 

Her memory sometimes brought her swift flushes 
of mortification when she thought of him—of their 
association so pregnant with some sympathy or subtle 
influence that had set the world so far beyond them 
at times. Now that he was gone, and their knowledge 
of each other perhaps all over, she tried to coolly 
reason it all out for herself, but found so much that 
contained no reason—that had existed only through im¬ 
pulse—impulses not easy to realize once outside the 
circle of their attending circumstances. 


126 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


Those memories puzzled her—her own weakness 
when she lay in his arms, and her own gift of second- 
sight that gave her an understanding of him that 
morning when she turned champion for him against 
himself. 

Was it really an understanding of him? or was it 
only that old habit of hers of discovering fine traits 
in characters voted worthless?—discoveries laughed at 
by her friends, until her “spectacles of imagination” 
were sometimes requested if some specimen of the 
genus homo without any redeeming points was under 
discussion. 

Was it so in this case? She had asked herself the 
question more than once during the winter. And if 
she had been at all pliable in her opinions, she would 
long ere spring have dropped back to the original 
impression that the man was a magnificent animal 
with an intellect, and with spirituality and morality 
sleeping. 

But she was not. A certain stubbornness in her 
nature kept her from being influenced, as the others 
were, at the knowledge that after all they had had 
a veritable “squaw man” as a guide. 

Hardy was surprised, and Tillie was inconsola¬ 
ble. 

“I never will believe in an honest face again!” she 
protested. 

“Nonsense!” laughed Rachel. “Pocahontas was an 
Indian, and Rolfe was not hustled out of society 
in consequence. ” 

“N—No,” assented Tillie, e 3 dng Rachel doubtfully; 
“but, then, you see Rolfe married Pocahontas.” 

“Yes?” 

“And—and Ivans told Hen he heard that the squaw 


IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. 


127 


you saw at Genesee’s was only a sort of slave. Did 
he tell you and Jim that she was his wife?” 

‘‘I—I don’t know;” and Rachel sat suddenly down 
on a chair near the window and looked rather hope¬ 
lessly at the questioner. “No, I don’t believe he 
said so, but the circumstances and all—well, 1 took 
it for granted; he looked so ashamed.” 

‘‘And you thought it was because of a marriage 
ceremony, not for the lack of one?” 

‘‘Yes,” acknowledged the girl, inwardly wondering 
why that view of the question had not presented itself 
to her. Had she after all imagined herself sighting 
an eagle, and was it on nearer acquaintance to develop 
into a vulture—or, worse still, a buzzard—a thing 
reveling only in carrion, and knowing itself too 
unclean to breathe the same air with the untainted! 
So it seemed; so Tillie was convinced; so she knew 
Clara would have thought, In fact, in all the range 
of her female acquaintances she could think of none 
whose opinion would not have been the same, and 
she had an impatient sort of wonder with herself for 
not agreeing with them. But the memory of the 
man’s face that morning, and the echo of that ‘‘God 
bless you, girl!” always drifted her away from utter 
unbelief in him. 

She heard considerable about him that winter; that 
he was thought rather eccentric, and belonged more to 
the Indians than the whites, sometimes living with a 
tribe of Kootenais for weeks, sometimes disappearing, 
no one knew where, for months, and then settling 
down in the cabin again and placidly digging away 
at that hole in the hill by the little lake—the hill 
itself called by the Indians “ Tamahnous,” meaning 
bewitched, or haunted. And his persistence at that 


128 . 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


work was one of the eccentric things that made some 
people say significantly: 

“They allowed Genesee was a good man, but a little 
‘touched’ on the silver question.” 

And for Tillie’s benefit Hen had to explain that 
the term “good” had nothing whatever to do with the 
man’s moral or spiritual worth; its use was in a purely 
physical sense. 

After the snows fell in the mountains there were 
but few strangers found their way to the new ranch. 
Half locked in as it was by surrounding hills, the 
passes were likely to be dangerous except to the 
initiated, and there were not many who had business 
urgent enough to push them through the drifts, or run 
their chances with land-slides. But if a stray hunter 
did come their way, his call was not allowed to 
be a short one. The}^ had already become too thor¬ 
oughly Western in their hospitality to allow the 
quick departure of a guest, a trait of which they had 
carried the germs from old Kentucky. 

And what cheery evenings there were in the great 
sitting-room, with the logs heaped high in the stone 
fire-place! An uncarpeted room, with long, cushioned 
settees along two sides of it—and miflity restful they 
were voted by the loungers after the day’s work; a 
few pictures on the wall, mostly engravings; the only 
color given the furnishing was in the pink and 
maroon chintz curtains at the windows, or cushions to 
oak chairs. And there in the firelight of the long 
evenings were cards played, or stories told, or maga¬ 
zines read aloud, Rachel and Hen generally taking turn 
about as reader. And Tillie in the depths of the cush¬ 
ioned rocker, knitting soft wool stuffs,was a chatelaine, 
the picture of serene content, with close beside her a 


IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. I2g 

foil in the form of black Aunty Luce,whom only devo¬ 
tion to her young miss would ever have tempted into 
those wilds; and after the work was over for thenight, 
it was a usual thing to see her slipping in and snug¬ 
gling down quietly to listen to the stories told or 
read, her big eyes glancing fearfully toward windows 
or doors if the Indian question was ever touched on; 
though occasionally, if approached with due ceremony 
and full faith shown in her knowledge, she would 
herself add her share to the stories told, her dona¬ 
tion consisting principally of “sure hoodoos, ” and the 
doings of black witches and warlocks in the land 
of bayous; for Aunty Luce had originally come from 
the swamps of Louisiana,where the native religion and 
superstitions have still a good following. And old 
Aunty’s reminiscences added to the variet}^ of their 
evening’s bill of entertainment. 

And a mail-carrier unexpectedly sprang up for them 
in the winter in the person of a ^mung half-breed 
called Kalitan, or the Arrow. He had another name; 
his father, an Englishman, and agent for a fur company, 
had happened to be around when his swarthy offspring 
was ushered into the world, and he promptly bestowed 
on him his own haine of Thomas Alexander. But it 
was all he did bestow on him—and that only by cour¬ 
tesy, not legality; and Alexander Junior had not even 
the pleasure of remembering his father’s face, as his 
mother was soon deserted, and, going back to her tribe, 
her son was raised as an Indian, even his name in 
time forgotten, as by common consent the more charac¬ 
teristic one of Kalitan was given him because of the 
swiftness of foot that had placed him among the best 
“runners” or messengers in the Indian country—and 
the average speed of a runner will on a long march 

P 


130 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


out-distance that of cavalry. At the military post at 
Fort Missoula, Kalitan’s lines had first fallen among 
those of Genesee, and for some unexplained reason 
his adherence to that individual became as devoted 
as Mowitza’s own. And for a long time they had not 
ranged far apart, Genesee seldom leaving the 
Kootenai country that'Kalitan did not disappear as 
well. But this last trip his occupation was gone, for 
MacDougall had been left word that the trail was not 
clear ahead, but if Kalitan was wanted he would be 
sent for, and that sinewy, bronze personage did not 
seem to think of doing other than wait—and the wait¬ 
ing promised to be long. 

He took to hanging around Scot’s Mountain more 
than of old, with the query, “May-be Genesee send 
lettah—s’pose? I go see.” 

And go he would, over and over again, always with 
a philosophic “S’pose next time,” when he re¬ 
turned empty-handed. Sometimes he stopped at the 
ranch, and Rachel at once recognized him as the youth 
who had brought her the black bear skin months before, 
and pretended at the time utter ignorance of Chinook. 
He would speak Chinook fast enough to her now 
if there was any occasion, his white blood, and the 
idea that she was Genesee’s friend, inclining him to 
sociability seldom known to the aristocratic conserva¬ 
tives of the Indian race. 

The nearest mail station was twenty miles south, 
and it was quite an item to find a messenger willing as 
was Kalitan; and storm or calm, he would make the 
trip just the same, carrying his slip of paper on which 
all the names were written and which he presented as 
an order to the postmaster. A big mail was a cause 
of pride to him, especially magazines or packages. 


IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. 13I 

Letters he did not think of much account, because 
of their size. 

To Aunty Luce he was a thing of dread, as were all 
of his race. She was firmly convinced that the dusky, 
well-featured face belonged to an imp of the evil one, 
and that he simply slid over the hills on the cold 
winds, without even the aid of a broom-stick. And 
nights that he spent at the ranch found Aunty’s ebony 
face closer than ever to the side of Mistress Tillie’s 
chair. 

And another member had been added to the visiting 
list at Hardy’s, and that was the sovereign of Scot’s 
Mountain. 

Along in the midwinter, Kalitan brought a scrawled 
note from “Ole Man Mac,” asking for some drugs of 
which he stood in need. The request brought to light 
the fact that Kalitan one day while paying visits had 
found “Ole Man Mac” sick in bed— “heap sick— 
crank—no swallow medicine but white man’s.” 

The required white man’s medicine was sent, and 
with it a basket with white bread, fresh butter, and 
various condiments of home manufacture that Tillie’s 
kindly heart prompted her to send to the old trapper 
—one of their nearest neighbors. 

And the following day Rachel and her henchman 
Jim started on Kalitan’s trail, with the idea of seeing 
personally if any further aid was needed at the cabin 
that the ranch could give. A snow three days old 
covered the ground, in which Kalitan’s trail was eas¬ 
ily followed; and then Rachel had been over the same 
route before, starting light-hearted and eager, on that 
cultus corrie. 

They reached Scot’s Mountain a little after noon, 
and found its grizzled, unshaven owner much better 


132 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


than he had been the day before, and close beside him 
on the pillow lay his one companion, the cat. 

“Well, well! to think o’ this!” said the old man, 
reaching a brawny hand to her from the bunk. “You’re 
the first white woman as ever passed that door-post, 
and it’s rare and glad I am that it’s your own self.” 

“Why myself more than another?” she asked, rather 
surprised at his words. “I would have come long 
ago if I had known I was wanted, or that you even 
knew of me.” 

“Have I not, then?” he queried, looking at her 
sharply from under his wrinkled, half-closed lids. 
“But sit ye down, lady. Kalitan, bring the chair. And 
is that a brother—the lad there? I thought I had na 
heard of one. Sit you down close that I can see ye— 
a sight good for sore een; an’ have I no heard o’ ye? 
Ah, but I have, though. Many’s the hour the lad has 
lain lazy like on the cot here, an’ told me o’ the gay 
folk frae the East. Ye know I’d be a bit curious o’ 
my new neighbors, an’ would be askin’ many’s the 
question, an’ all the tales would end wi’ something 
about the lass that was ay the blithe rider, an’ ever 
the giver o’ good judgment.” 

The girl felt her face grow hot under those sharp 
old eyes. She scarcely knew what to say, and yet could 
give no sensible reason for such embarrassmentj and 
then— 

“The lad—what lad?” she asked at last. 

“Oh—ay. I clean forgot he is no lad to you. 
Kalitan, will ye be building up that fire a bit? When 
we have quality to visit we must give them a warm 
welcome, if no more. An’ the lad, as I was sayin’,” he 
continued, “was but Genesee—no other; though he 
looked more the lad when I called him so first.” 


IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. 


133 


“You are such old friends, then?” 

“No so old as so close, ye might say. It’s a matter 
o’ five year now since he come up in these hills wi’ 
some men who were prospectin’, an’ one an’ another 
got tired and dropped down the country again till 
only Genesee was left. He struck that haunted hill 
in the Maple range that they all said was of no good, 
an’ he would na leave it. There he stuck in very 
stubbornness, bewitched like by it; an’ the day before 
his flitten in the fall found him clear through the hill, 
helped a bit by striking into an old mine that nobody 
knew aught of. Think o’ that!—dug into a mine that 
had been abandoned by the Indians generations ago, 
most like. ” 

“I did not know that the Indians ever paid atten¬ 
tion to mining. They seem to know no use for gold or 
silver until the white mien teach them it.” 

“True enough; but there the old mine stands, as a 
clear showin’ that some o’ the heathen, at some time, 
did mine in that range; an’ the stone mallets an’ 
such like that he stumbled on there shows that the 
cave was no the result o’ accident.” 

“And has he at last given it up as hopeless?” 

“That’s as time may happen .to tell,” answered the 
old man sagely; “an’ old Daddy Time his own 
self could na keep his teeth shut more tight than can 
Genesee if there’s a bit secret to hold. But o’ the 
old mine he said little when he was takin’ the trail, 
only, Tt has kept these thousand o’ years, Davy— 
it will most like keep until I get back.’ ” 

From that speech Rachel gathered the first intima¬ 
tion that Genesee’s absence from the Kootenai coun¬ 
try was only a transient one. Was he then to come 
back and again drop his life into its old lines? She 


134 


TOLD IN THE HILLS, 


did not like to think of it—neither to question. But 
that winter visit to ‘‘Ole Man Mac,” as Kalitan 
called him, was the beginning of an avowed friendship 
between the old hermit of the northern hills and the 
young girl from the southern ones. 

Her independent, curious spirit and youthful vital¬ 
ity was a sort of tonic to him, and as he grew better 
he accepted her invitation to visit the ranch, and 
from that on the grizzled head and still athletic frame 
of the old fellow were not strange ones to the Hardy 
household. He was there as often as was consistent 
with the weather in the hills and almost sevent}^ years 
of braving their hardships; for* of late years Mac- 
Dougall did not range wide. His traps could find 
too many nooks near home for mink, lynx, and the 
black bear, and from the Kootenai tribes on the north 
he bought pelts, acting the trader as well as trapper; 
and twice a year making a trip to a settlement to 
dispose of his wares, with horses from his Indian 
neighbors to transport them with. 

Rachel learned that for forty years he had followed 
that isolated life—moving steadily farther west or 
farther north as the grip of civilization made itself 
felt behind him; and he felt himself crowded if a 
settler’s prairie schooner was sighted within twenty- 
five miles of him. The girl wondered, often, the cause 
of that self-exile, but no word or sign gave her any 
clew. He had come from the eastern highlands of 
Scotland when less than thirty years old, and had 
struck out at once for the extreme borders of civiliza¬ 
tion in'America; and there he had remained—always 
on the borders—never quite overtaken. 

‘‘But it will be but few more stands I can make,” 
he would say to her sometimes. ‘‘Time is little 


IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. 


135 


content to be a laggard, and he is running me close 
in a race he has na’ a doubt of the winning.” 

With advancing years, the barrier, whatever the 
foundation, that he had raised between himself and 
the world was evidently weakening somewhat; and 
first through Genesee, and now through this girl, had 
come a growing desire for intercourse with his own 
race once more. And much teasing did the girl get in 
consequence of the visits that by the family in general 
were conceded to belong to Rachel in particular, 
teasing, however, which she bore with indifference, 
openly claiming that the strongest interest was on her 
side, and if he forgot his visits she would certainly 
go herself to Scot’s Mountain to learn the why and 
wherefore. This she did more than once, through 
the season, when indoor life grew at all monotonous; 
sometimes with Jim as a companion, and sometimes 
with Kalitan trotting at her mare’s head, and guard¬ 
ing very carefully Betty’s feet over the dangerous 
places—Aunty Luce always watching such a departure 
with prophecies of ‘‘Miss Rache’s sea’ p a-hangin’ round 
the neck o’ that red nigger some o’ these days. I’m 
a-tellin’ yeh!” 

But Kalitan proved, despite prophecies, a most 
eager and careful guardian, seeming to feel rather 
proud when he was allowed to be her sole companion. 

Sometimes he would say: ‘‘S’pose you hear where 
Genesee is—may be?” and at her negative he, like a 
philosopher of unlimited patience, would content 
himself with: “Sometime he sure come; s’pose zvaum 
illihie'—waum illihie meaning the summer-time; and 
Rachel, noting his faithfulness to that one idea, 
wondered how many seasons his patience would last 
through. 


136 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


But at last, about the middle of April, he stalked 
into the ranch door one morning early, scaring Aunty 
Luce out of her seven senses, or as many extra ones 
as she lay claim to. 

“Rashell Hardy?” was all he deigned to address to 
that personage, so inborn in the Indian is the scorn 
of a slave or those of slavish origin. And Kalitan, 
who had lived almost entirely with his tribe, had many 
of the aristocratic ideas of race that so soon degenerate 
in the Indian of the settlements or haunts of the 
white man. Once Aunty Luce, not understanding his 
ideas of caste, thought to propitiate him with some 
kindly social inquiry as to the state of his health 
and well-being, and had beat an ignominious retreat 
to the floor above at the black look of indignation 
on his face at being questioned by a slave. When 
Rachel took him to task for such a ferocious manner, 
he answered, with a sullen sort of pride: ‘‘I, Kalitan, 
am of a race of chiefs—not a dog to be bidden by 
black blood; ” and she had noticed then, and at other 
times, that any strong emotion, especially anger, 
gave an elevated tone and manner of speech to him 
and his race, lifting it out of the slurred common¬ 
places of the mongrel jargon—a direct contradiction 
of their white brother, on whom anger generally has 
an effect exactly contrary. After that one venture of 
Aunty’s at timorous friendliness, she might have 
been a dumb woman so far as Kalitan ever had further 
knowledge; for her conversations in his presence were 
from that date carried on entirely in pantomime, often 
to the annoyance, though always to the amusement, of 
the family. 

And his abrupt entrance and query that April 
morning was answered by a comprehensive nod and 


IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. 


137 


wave of pudgy black hands toward the sitting-room, 
into which he walked without knocking—that also, 
perhaps, being deemed a prerogative of his lordly 
race. 

“Why, Kalitan, so early!” said Rachel in surprise. 
“Are you trying to outrun the sun? What is it?” 
For her eyes, accustomed to the usual calm of his 
countenance, recognized at once that some new cur¬ 
rent of emotion was struggling for supremacy in him 
that morning. He did not answer at once, but seated 
himself in impressive silence on the edge of one of 
the settees, and after a dramatic pause that he con¬ 
sidered a fitting prelude to the importance of his 
communication, he addressed himself to Rachel—the 
only woman, by the way, whom he was ever known to 
meet or converse with on terms of equality, as Indian 
chivalry does not extend to their exaltation of the 
gentler sex. 

“Rashell Hardy,” he said, in a mingling of English 
and Chinook, “I, Kalitan, the Arrow, shoot to the 
south. Genesee has sent in' the talking-paper to Ole- 
Man Mac that the Reservation Indians south have dug 
up the hatchet. Genesee is taking the trail from the 
fort, with rifle and many men, and he wants an arrow 
that can shoot out of sight of any other; so he wants 
Kalitan. ” 

And having delivered himself of this modest enco¬ 
mium on his own worth, there was a stage-wait of about 
a minute, that might have been relieved by some words 
conceding his superiority, but wasn’t. Rachel was 
looking out of the window as if in momentary for¬ 
getfulness of the honor done her in this statement of 
facts. Kalitan rose to his feet. 

"Ole Man Mac come down valley, may be, in two 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


138 

days. I stop to tell you, and say like white man, 
klahowya. ” 

And with the Indian word of farewell, he turned to 
the door, when Rachel stopped him. 

“Wait, Kalitan,” she said, holding out her hand to 
stop him. “You are going south into the hostile 
country. Will the Arrow carry a message as it flies?” 

“Let Rashell Hardy speak. Kalitan is swift. A 
message is not heavy from a friend.” 

“That is it, Kalitan; it is to your friend—Genesee. ’ 

“Rachel!” ejaculated Tillie, who had been a silent 
auditor of this queer little scene, with its ceremony 
and its ludicrous features—ludidrous to any not know¬ 
ing the red man’s weakness for forms and a certain 
pomposity that seems a childish love of display and 
praise. But Rachel never ridiculed it; instead, she 
simply let herself drop into his tone, and thus enhanced 
very much his opinion of her. And at Tillie’s voice 
she turned impatiently. 

“Well, why not?” she asked; and her combative air 
at once reduced Tillie to withdrawing as easily as she 
could from the discussion. 

“But, dear, the man’s reputation! and really you 
know he is nothing we thought he was. He is scarcely 
fit for any lady to speak to. It is better to leave such 
characters alone. One never can tell how far they 
may presume on even recognitiqn. ” 

“Yes? After all, Tillie, I believe you are very 
much of the world worldly. Did he stop to ask if I 
was entirely a proper sort of person before he started 
to hunt for me that time in the Kootenai hills?” 

“Nonsense! Of course not. But the cases are totally 
unlike. ” 

"Naturally. He is a man; I am a v/oman. But if 


IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. 


139 


the cases were reversed, though I might preserve a 
better reputation, I doubt much if, in some respects, I 
should equal the stubborn strength of character I have 
seen that man show at times.” 

“Oh, I might have known better than to advise you, 
Rachel, if I wanted to influence you, ” remarked Tillie 
helplessly. “You are like an Irishman, always spoil¬ 
ing for a fight, and hunt up the most ridiculous, impos¬ 
sible theories to substantiate your views; but I am so 
disappointed in that man—he seemed such a fine fel¬ 
low. But when we are assured of our mistake, it is 
time, especially, Rachel, for a girl, to drop all acquaint¬ 
ance with him.” 

“I wish I was not a girl. Then I would not have 
to be hedged in forever. You would not think it so 
terrible if Hen or Ivans, or any of the men, were to 
meet him as usual or send word to him if they chose.” 

“But that is different.” 

“And I am sick of the differences. The more I see 
the narrowness of social views, the less I wonder at 
old MacDougall and Genesee taking to the mountains, 
where at least the life, even the life’s immoralities, are 
primitive. ” 

“Primitive! Oh, good Lord!” ejaculated Tillie in 
serio-comic despair. “What would you suggest as an 
improvement on their simplicity?” 

And then, both being rather good-natured women, 
he absurdity of their vehemence seemed to strike 
them, and looking at each other for a second, they 
both burst out laughing. 

All this time Kalitan stood, showing his silent dis- 
. dain of this squaw "wau-wau" with the impassive gaze 
that went straight over their heads at the opposite 
wall, not seeing the debaters, as if it were beneath 


140 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


his dignity to open his ears to their words. In fact, 
his dignity had been enhanced several degrees since 
his visit to the ranch, some ten days before—all 
because of that “talking-paper,” no doubt, that had come 
from the Fort, and his full Indian dress—for he would 
scorn to wear the garb of his father—was decked with 
several additional trinkets, borrowed or stolen from 
the tribe, that were likely to render his appearance 
more impressive. 

And Rachel, glancing at him, was reminded by that 
manner of dignified toleration that she had kept him 
waiting no doubt five minutes—and five minutes in the 
flight of an arrow is a life-time. 

“Tell Jack Genesee,” she said, turning to him in 
complete negligence of arguments just used, “that 
Rachel Hardy sends to him greetings—you under¬ 
stand? That she is glad to hear where he is; a sol¬ 
dier’s life is a good one for him, and she will always 
have faith in him fighting well, and trying to fight on 
the right side. Is that message much to remember?” 

Kalitan poetically answered in Chinook to the effect 
that his heart was in his ears when she spoke, and 
would be in his tongue when he met Genesee; and 
with that startling statement he made his exit, 
watched by Aunty Luce from the stairs on which she 
had taken refuge. 

“You are a queer girl, Rache,” said Tillie as Rachel 
stood watching the gaily-decked, sinewy form as it 
broke into a sort of steady trot, once outside the gate, 
and was so quickly out of sight down the valley. 

“Am I? Try and say something more original,” she 
suggested. 

“I believe you would make a good missionary,” con¬ 
tinued Tillie debatably. “Your theory of civilizing peo- 


IN THE KOOTENAI SPRING-TIME. I4I 

pie seems to be all right; but while it may work capi¬ 
tally with those savages born in heathendom, I fear 
its results when applied to enlightened mortals who 
have preferred dropping into degraded lives. Your 
laudable energy is likely to be wasted on that sort of 
material.” 

“What a learned diagnosis for you to make, my 
child,” said Miss Hardy approvingly. “Aunty Luce 
confided to me she was going to make a ‘batch’ of 
sugar cookies this morning, and you shall have the 
very first one as a reward for delivering your little 
speech so nicely.” 


142 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER II. 

A RECRUIT FROM THE WORLD. 

“Oh, cam’ ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi’ me, man? ” 

Spring, with its showers and promises, drifted into 
he dim perspective, as summer, with flaunting 
assumption, took possession of the foreground. And 
all through the changing weeks rumors came from the 
south and east, telling of disaffection among the hered¬ 
itary lords of the soil, and petty troubles in differ¬ 
ent localities, that, like low mutterings of far-off thun¬ 
der, promised storms that might be remembered. 

Some rust on the wheels of the slow-moving 
machinery of government had caused a delay in the 
• dealings with the people on the reservations. Treat¬ 
ies ignored through generations, in both letter and 
spirit, are not calculated to beget faith in the hearts 
of the red nations, or teach them belief in the straight¬ 
ness of our tongues. Was it the fault of the Depart¬ 
ment of the Interior at Washington, or the dishonesty 
of their local agents?—the chicanery of the party in 
office, or the scheme of some political ring that 
wanted to get in by bringing forward a cause for con¬ 
demnation of the existing regime? Whatever one of 
the multitudinous excuses was finally given for neglect 
of duty—treaties, promises of government—Mr. Lo 
had now—as he has ever had—to bear the suffering in 
question, whether just or unjust. 

Small wonder if, now and then, a spark of that old fire 


A RECRUIT FROM THE WORLD. 


43 


in the blood ignites, and even the most tamed spirits 
rise up ready to write pages of history in blood. The 
only wonder is that they ever pass by the house or the 
offspring of the white race without that call of the 
red heart for vengeance being too strong for the hands 
to resist. 

And through the late winter, whether through 
storms or floods or the schemes of men, on one of the 
reservations to the south the rations had not been 
forthcoming; and from week to week excuses were 
given that were no longer listened to with credence 
by the Indians. In vain were visits made, first to the 
agency, next to the nearest fort, supplicating for 
their rights. One delegation after another turned 
back from those visits unsatisfied, told by the first 
that the rations would be distributed when they 
arrived, not before; told by the second that the War 
Department was not in any way responsible for 
deficiencies of the Department of the Interior, and 
could not interfere—at the same time advising them , 
to be patient, as eventually their wants would be sat' 
isfied. Eventually! and in the meantime they could go 
back to their tribes and eat their horses, their dogs, 
and see their people grow weak as the children for 
the want of food. 

Small wonder if one group after another of the 
younger braves, and even the older warriors, broke 
loose from the promise of peace and joined the hos- , 
tile bands that thieved along the border,sweeping, 
the outlying ranches of horses and cattle, and beating 
a retreat back into the hills with their booty. 

Of course, the rations arrived eventually, and were 
distributed by those fair-minded personages whose 
honest dealing with the red man is proverbial along 


144 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


the border; but the provisions came too late to stem 
the tide of secession that had set in, and the War 
Department had found that, after all, it would be 
influenced by the actions of the Department of the 
Interior, and that its interference was demanded for 
the protection of the homes on the frontier. As the 
homes were the homes of white citizens, its action was, 
of course, one of promptness. White men’s votes decide 
who shall continue to sit in the high places of the 
land, or who shall step down and out to make way for 
the new man of new promises. 

But they found ordinary methods of war were of little 
avail against the scattered bands, who, like bees in the 
summer-time, divided their swarms, and honey-combed 
the hills, knowing every retreat, and posted, by Indian 
runners and kindred left behind, as to every movement. 

It was simply a war of skirmishing, and one not 
likely to cease soon. Reinforcements came to the 
hostile tribes from all the worthless outlaws of the 
border—some of white, others of mixed blood; and 
from those mongrels resulted the more atrocious feat¬ 
ures of the outbreak. They fought and schemed 
with the Indian because they wanted his protection, 
and any proposed treaty for peace was argued against 
by them most vehemently. And while an Indian 
makes a good thief, a half-breed makes a better; but 
the white man, if his taste runs in that direction, is 
an artist, and'to him is his red brother indebted for 
much teaching in the subtle art through many genera¬ 
tions. 

That, and like accomplishments, made them com¬ 
rades to be desired by the tribes who depended for 
their subsistence on the country guarded by troops; 
and scientific methods of thievery were resorted to, 


A RECRUIT FROM THE WORLD. 


145 


that required the superior brain and the white face 
of the Caucasian. 

And so was the trouble fostered, and the contagion 
spread, until far-off tribes, hearing of it, missed now 
one, now another, of their more restless spirits; and 
the white authorities found it would not do to trust 
to the peace of any of the nations—the only surety 
was to guard it. Ay>i this they tried to do, 
locating posts and stationing troops near even the 
most peaceable tribes—their presence suggesting the 
advisability of remaining so. 

And, now through one, now another, and generally 
by MacDougall, the people at the ranch heard at 
times of the Arrow and of Genesee. They were with the 
troops, and were together; and the latter’s knowledge 
of Indian tactics was counting much in his lavor evi¬ 
dently, as his opinions were cited in the reports and 
prophecies of results, and his influence had decided 
more than one movement of the campaign that had won 
him the commendation of his superior officers—^cir- 
cumstances that were, of course, discussed pro and con 
by the people of the Kootenai. There was little of 
local news in so isolated a place, and Rachel declared 
they were all developing into gossips because of the 
avidity with which the slightest of events in their own 
region was talked over; and of course the Indian ques¬ 
tion was an all-absorbing topic, and to Aunty Luce 
was attended by a sort of paralysis of terror. In vain 
to point out the friendly listlessness of the Kootenais, 
their nearest neighbors of the red race, for the Koo¬ 
tenais were simple hunters or fishers, making war on 
none, unless now and then a detachment of thieving 
Blackfeet from east of the mountains would file through 
the old Flathead Pass and run off portions of their 


10 


146 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


stock; for in the time of the fishing, the greater half 
the village would move for the season away from their 
pasture-lands, in search of the fish that they smoke, 
dry, and pack in osier baskets for the winter. And it 
'^as generally during that temporary flitting that a 
visit from those neighboring tribes would be made, 
and an assessment levied, to the extent of all loose 
cattle in reach, and an occasional squaw now and 
then. And so, though the Kootenais were on the most 
friendly terms with the few whites about them, their 
relations were decidedly strained toward their red 
brethren on the east, or across the line into the Northwest 
Territories of the Britons. 

But it was useless to talk “good Indian” to Aunty, 
who was afraid to stay in the house or out of it; afraid 
to start back to Kentucky, yet sure that delay meant 
death. And all through the summer, let the rest have 
faith if they chose, yet the baby’s wardrobe and her 
own were always packed ready for flight at the first 
signal of danger. 

But with this one exception, the Indian question 
troubled the people at the ranch but little. They found 
too many duties on the new ground to take up their 
time and attention—the success of the sheep-rais¬ 
ing experiment showing signs of such thorough suc¬ 
cess that it would require more than the skirmish¬ 
ing of the races a couple of hundred miles away 
to disenchant Hardy with the country; and where he 
was content, Tillie was, of course; and Rachel—well, 
Rachel was deemed a sort of vagabond in regard to a 
settlement anywhere. She was satisfied with any place 
where the fences were not too high, nor the limits of 
her range too narrow. 

She often wondered that the world in general knew 


A RECRUIT FROM THE WORLD. I47 

SO little of that beautiful corner of the earth. She 
knew that people flocked to “resorts” that possessed 
not at all the wealth of beauties that whimsical nature 
had scattered on those Indian hills. 

But in the fall, about a year after the cultus cor- 
rie, she began to think that, after all, they might meet 
with deserved appreciation some day, for one man 
rode up into them, not for stock, or to locate land, or 
any of the few reasons that brought people to the 
Kootenai country, but simply and only for pleasure 
and rest—so he said. 

It was in late September, and as he rode leisurely 
through the dusk shadows of the pines, and along the 
passionate, restless path of some mountain stream, his 
expressive face showed a more than casual interest in 
the prodigality of delightful vistas and impressive 
grandeur of the mountains, as they loomed about him 
or slowly drifted beneath him. 

All the beauty of autumn was around him, yet he 
himself looked like one of the people who belong only 
to summei?, judging from his eager eyes and the boy¬ 
ish laugh that broke on the still air as he watched 
the pranks of some squirrels making holiday in their 
own domain. 

Not that the stranger was so young. He was not a 
boy in years; but the spirit of youth, that remains so 
long with some natures, shone in his glance, and loi¬ 
tered about the sensitive mouth. In seeing him smile, 
one would forget the thread of premature silver that 
shone through the bronze of his hair. He was almost 
beautiful in face; yet his stature, which was much 
above the average, and his dextrously complete propor¬ 
tions, debarred him from the beauty that is effeminate; 
but it was in every way refined. 


148 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


It was noon when stragglers of sheep met his gaze, 
dotting with white the green and amber grasses of the 
great park, and shovnng, as he forded Missoula Creek, a 
picture before him, framed in the high wall of the hills, 
and restful with pastoral peace that was a striking 
contrast to the untamable wilds through which he 
had passed. 

“Almost there,” he whispered eagerly, as he rode 
along the corrals and was greeted by a tumbling loc of 
sheep-dogs. “Will it be of use?” 

Before he reached the gate he was met by Hardy, 
who, bare-headed, had left the dinner-table to welcome 
a visitor whom, from the porch, all had decided was a 
stranger. 

The host scattered the dogs. There were a few 
words, a shake of hands, and they could hear Hardy’s 
hearty invitation to dismount. 

Meanwhile, Aunty Luce was bustling about as fast 
as her stout, short form would allow her, arranging 
a place at the table for the late guest, and thanking 
her stars that a real gentleman was to be company for 
them once more—her opinion that he was a gentle¬ 
man having foundation in the fact that he wore “store- 
clothes” instead of the trappings of buckskin ahected 
by the natives of the Kootenai. 

But they found he was possessed of more decided 
points due the idea of a gentleman, both in breeding 
and education, and before many remarks were 
exchanged, the rest of the family, as well as Aunty, 
were congratulating themselves on this acquisition 
from the world. 

“Yes, I am altogether a stranger up here,” he said 
pleasantly, in answer to a query; “and at Holland’s they 
told me there was one of my Statesmen up in this 


A RECRUIT FROM THE WORLD. 


149 


park; so I asked the way and started west, instead 
of north, as I had thought of going.” 

‘‘Doing a bit o’ prospectin’, then?” was MacDou- 
gall’s query. 

It was a visiting-day of his, and he had been watch¬ 
ing the new-comer’s face with scrutinizing eyes ever 
since the first words of self-introduction, in which his 
name had been overlooked. 

‘‘Well—yes,” answered the other slowly, as if he was 
not decided, or had not anticipated the question. 

‘‘I thought as much, since ye carry no hunting gear,” 
remarked the trapper; ‘‘and in this country a man is 
likely to be the one thing or the other.” 

‘‘And in this case it is the other,” smiled the stran¬ 
ger, “as I have not as yet found any vocation ; I have 
come out here to forget I ever had one—prospecting 
for a rest.” 

‘‘Well, there is plenty of room here to rest in,” said 
Hardy hospitably. 

‘‘Yes, or work in,” added Rachel; “and a new coun¬ 
try needs the workers. ” 

Tillie threw an admonishing glance as payment for 
the uncivil speech, and the stranger turned his atten¬ 
tion to the speaker. The contour of her face must 
have been pleasing, since he looked at it interestedly, 
as if forgetting in its contemplation the words uttered; 
and then— 

“Indeed?” he said at last. “Well, who knows but 
what I may develop into a worker; is the industry 
here contagious?” 

And Rachel, whose tone had been more uncivil than 
her intention, felt herself put at a disadvantage by the 
suavity that was not a feature of Kootenai character. 

“Indeed, then,” said MacDougall, “it’s gettin’ to be a 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


150 

brisk, busy country these late days, an’ ye canna go a 
matter o’ twenty mile without trippin’ up on a settle¬ 
ment. An’ ye come from Holland’s without a guide? 
That’s pretty good for a stranger in the parts, as I 
doubt na ye be, Mr. —” And he stopped suggestively. 

The stranger laughed, and drew a card fjrom his 
pocket. 

“I told Mr. Hardy my name at the gate,” he 
observed, “but it evidently escaped his memory; he 
introduced me only as a stranger.” 

“It does not matter, however, what a man is called 
out here,” returned Hardy. “It is the man that is val¬ 
ued in the West—not the name given him; now, back 
home they weighed about equal.” 

“And in my country,” said MacDougall, looking up 
from the card, “here’s a name that would carry ye 
many a mile, an’ bespeak ye good-will from man}/ an 
old heart— Charles Stuart. It’s a name to take unco’ 
good care of, my man.” 

“I try to take good care of the owner of it, at all 
events,” answered the stranger; “but it is not an 
uncommon name in America; there are few parts of 
the country in which I am not able to find a name¬ 
sake. ” 

“Indeed, then, an’ I have run across none o’ the 
name these seven odd year,” said MacDougall; “an’ 
then it was a man in the Bitter Root Mountains, who 
spelt it with the ‘e-w’ instead of the ‘u,’an’ had 
never e’en heard tell o’ Prince Charlie.” 

“And you have known no one in this country by the 
name of Stuart?” asked the stranger, his eyes seeming 
to watch at the same time both Hardy and the old 
man. Ivans and Jim had left the table and lounged 
out to the stables to smoke. 


A RECRUIT FROM THE WORLD. 


I5I 

“No,” answered Hardy; “we are comparatively new¬ 
comers here, but all the settlers within a radius of 
hfty miles are already known to us by name—it is 
not so difficult where white men are so scarce; and I 
have never heard of any Stuarts among them.” 

“Then I have dropped literally into a strange 
country,” said Stuart, rising and walking to the end 
of the porch; “and from what I have seen of it, 
a decidedly interesting one. Hunting good?” 

“Excellent,” returned Hardy. “We’ve been too busy 
to get to the hills so far this year, but now we have 
a little breathing-spell, and if you would care to try 
your luck with game, I would take pleasure in showing 
you our hunting-grounds.” 

“That certainly is kind of you,” said Mr. Stuart 
heartily, “and I will accept the offer most gratefully. 
The fact is, I’ve been rather used up with a profes¬ 
sional life, and was in hopes a trip up through this 
country would set me on my feet again. Over there at 
Holland’s they told m.e about you and your family, 
and—” 

“Yes,” completed Hardy, “a man with his family 
and household goods up in these hills is a marked indi¬ 
vidual; but my wife and cousin do not rebel at the 
exile; they are both philosophers, in their way.” 

“Yes?” and Stuart’s agreement had the intonation 
of a man who hears, but ceases to grasp the sense of 
words. Some closer thought seemed present with 
him. He glanced at Hardy, a swift, quickly 
withdrawn scrutiny, and then said: “Do you know, 
Mr. Hardy, I should like to propose myself for 
membership in your household for a few weeks; 
would it be deemed an impertinence? I can’t stay 
at Holland Centre with any comfort, and this place of 


152 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


yours seems to be a haven of rest. Could you give me 
space to live in for a while, without me being a nui¬ 
sance to the establishment?” 

“Yes, and welcome,” answered Hardy. “You donH 
seem to appreciate what a treat it is to have a visitor 
from civilization ride our way; and one from 
our old State is especially in demand. I was going 
to propose that you move your outfit up here and make 
the ranch your headquarters while in the country. A 
nuisance! No, sir.” 

And so was the simple ceremony concluded that intro¬ 
duced this stranger to the Hardys, to the general satis¬ 
faction of all concerned. Rachel was the only member 
who did not seem specially delighted. 

‘‘Oh, yes, he is clever and entertaining,” she agreed 
to Tillie, ‘‘and his manner is so charmingly insin¬ 
uating that I may end by falling in love with him; 
but I am beginning with an unreasonable desire to 
say snappy things to him.” 

“I should say it was unreasonable— a thorough 
gentleman, of fine family connections. He mentioned 
several Kentucky families that Hen could know what 
his standing was back home, and his profession is 
that of medicine— I noticed the M. D. on his card; 
and altogether I can not see what ground you have for 
objecting. ” 

“I am not objecting—bless the man! no,” returned 
Rachel; ‘‘only, because a man has acquired a charming 
manner and possesses a handsome face is no reason 
for me devoting myself to admiration of him, like 
Aunty Luce. She is jubilant over having so fine a 
gentleman to wait on. You are discreetly elated over 
having so charming a person to entertain; even Miss 
Margaret (Miss Margaret was the baby)—everything 


A RECRUIT FROM THE WORLD. 


153 


feminine about the place has succumbed. And I sup¬ 
pose my reason for keeping on my own side of the 
fence is that Pm jealous. I am no longer first in 
the affections of anyone about the place. MacDougall 
is likely to swear allegiance at any time because his 
name is Stuart— and, above all, Charlie Stuart; even 
Jim is wavering in the balance, and shows a wonderful 
alacrity in anticipating the wishes of this tenderfoot. 
Is it a wonder I rebel?” 

‘‘Well, for the comfort of the rest of us, do not 
begin a civil war,” admonished Tillie, and was only 
reassured by a promise that there should be no active 
hostilities. “If you are more comfortable in war than 
in peace, go south and fight with the skirmishing 
Indians,” suggested the little woman. 

“I will,” said Rachel. “If you get any more civil¬ 
ized recruits up here to make the place tame and com¬ 
monplace, I will seek service under the standard of 
the Arrow, or Genesee.” And at the mention of the 
last name Tillie discreetly subsided. 

But the girl found the raw recruit rapidly making 
himself a power in the social world of the ranch. 
There was something of charming grace in the man’s 
personality; and that rare gift of a sympathetic nature 
that had also the faculty of expression, at once ac¬ 
corded him the trust of women and children. 

It may be that a degree of physical beauty influ¬ 
enced them also, for his fine, well-shaped head was 
very good to look at; the poise of the erect, tall 
figure bespoke serene self-confidence; the curves of his 
lips, slightly hidden by a mustache, yet gave a sweet¬ 
ness of expression to the lower part of his face; while 
the wide brows and fine eyes gave an intellectual cast 
to a personality that did not lack attractive points. 


154 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“The lad has the old grace o’ the Stuarts,” Mac- 
Doiigall affirmed, sticking to his fancy of connecting 
the old blood-royal with the slip of the name grown 
on alien ground. “And it is much the same free-handed 
manner o’ the old stock—free o’ their smiles, an’ winning 
o’ hearts by the clasp o’ the hand; but there’s a bit 
about this one that is a rare puzzle to me. I think 
like enough it’s the eyes, they’re main handsome ones; 
but I’m always a-rackin’ o’ my brains to tell where 
I’ve seen them before.” 

Racliel, to whom this speech was made, only 
laughed. 

“He has never been West until now, so you can not 
have seen them,” she argued; but her tone made the 
old man regard her with attention. 

“What do ye mean by that, lass?” 

“Oh, nothing, only he says so;” and tlien she went 
into the house, leaving her guest sitting on the bench 
of the porch. 

“The Stuart,” as the others had already dropped into 
calling him, after MacDougall, had been at the ranch 
about a week. The proposed hunt was yet to be; and 
in the meantime he rode through the parks, and saw 
all that was near-about the ranch. He talked stock- 
raising with Hardy, of medicinal herbs with Aunty 
Luce, of babies with Tillie, and with Rachel of 
numerous worldly topics of interest, that, however, 
never seemed to change much the nature of their ac¬ 
quaintance; that remained much as it had done the first 
day—on her side, arms burnished and ready for action; 
on his, the serene gentleness of manner that was 
almost a caress, a changeless good-humor that spoke 
volumes for his disposition, and at times forced even 
herself into a sort of admiration of him. 


A RECRUIT FROM THE WORLD. 


155 


The health-recruiting trip he had come on, he was 
evidently taking advantage of, for he almost lived 
out-of-doors, and looked wonderfully healthy and 
athletic for an invalid. In the house, he wrote a good 
deal. But the morning Rachel left MacDougall on 
the porch, the Stuart came sauntering up the path, the 
picture of careless content with himself and the 
world. “Where has Mr. Hardy gone?” he inquired, 
seating himself on the porch. “Pve been looking for 
him out at the pens, but they have all disappeared.” 

“Gone up the range for the yearlin’s that strayed 
off the last week; but they’ll no go far.” 

“I wanted to ask Mr.Hardy about mail out here. How 
often is it brought to the ranch?” 

“Well,” said the old man, between the puffs of his 
pipe, ‘‘that depends a bit on how often it is sent for; 
just whene’er they’re a bit slack o’ work, or if any 
body o’ them wants the trip made special; but Hardy 
will be sendin’ Jimmy across for it, if it’s any favor 
to you— be sure o’ that.” 

“Oh, for that matter—I seem to be the most useless 
commodity about the ranch—I could make the trip 
myself. Is Jim the usual mail-carrier?” 

“Well, I canna say; Andrews, a new man here, goes 
sometimes, but it’s no rare thing for him to come 
home carrying more weight in whisky than in the 
letters, an’ Hardy got a bit tired o’ that.” 

“But haven’t you a regular mail-carrier for this part 
of the country?” persisted Stuart. 

MacDougall laughed shortly at the idea. “Who’d 
be paying the post?” he asked, “with but the 
Hardys an’ myself, ye might say, barring the Koo- 
tenais; an’ I have na heard that they know the use of a 
postage-stamp." 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


156 

“But some one of their tribe does come to the Centre 
for mail," continued Stuart in half argument—“an 
Indian youth; have you never seen him?” 

“From the Kootenais? Well, I have not, then. It 
may be, of late, there are white men among them, but 
canna say; I see little o’ any o’ them this longtime.” 

“And know no other white people in this region?” 

“No, lad, not for a long time,” said the old man, 
with a half sigh. 

The listener rose to his feet. “I think,” he said, as 
if a prospect of new interest had suddenly been awak¬ 
ened in his mind—“I think I would like to make a 
trip up into the country of the Kootenais. It is not 
very far, I believe, and would be a new experience. 
Yes, if I could get a guide, I would go.” 

“Well,” said MacDougall drily, “seeing I’ve lived 
next door to the Kootenais for some time, I might be 
able to take ye a trip that way myself.” 

Rachel, writing inside the window, heard tile con¬ 
versation, and smiled to herself. 

“Strange that Kalitan should have slipped MacDou¬ 
gall’s memory,” she thought; “but then he may have 
been thinking only of the present, and the Stuart, of 
months back. So he does know some things of people 
in the Kootenai, for all his blind ignorance. And he 
would have learned more, if he had not been so clever 
and waited until the rest were gone, to question. I 
wonder what he is hunting for in this country; I 
don’t believe it is four-footed game.” 


AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


157 


CHAPTER III. 

AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


‘Their tricks and craft ha’ put me daft, 
They’ve ta’em me in, and a’ that.” 


“And SO you got back unharmed from the midst of 
the hostiles?” asked Rachel in mock surprise, when, 
a Vv'eek later. Hardy, Stuart, and MacDougall returned 
from their pilgrimage, bringing with them specimens 
of deer they had sighted on their return. 

“Hostiles is about the last name to apply to them, 
I should imagine,” remarked Stuart; “they are as 
peaceable as sheep.” 

“But they can fight, too,” said MacDougall, “an’ 
used to be reckoned hard customers to meet; but the 
Blackfeet ha’ well-nigh been the finish o’ them. The 
last o’ their war-chiefs is an old, old njan now, an’ 
there’s small chance that any other will ever walk 
in his moccasins.” 

“Pve been told something of the man’s character,” 
said Rachel, “but have forgotten his name—Bald Eagle ?” 

“Grey Eagle. An’ there’s more character in him 
worth the tellin’ of than you’ll find in any Siwash in 
these parts. I doubt na Genesee told you tales o’ him. 
He took a rare, strange liking to Genesee from the 
first—made him some presents, an’ went through a bit 
o’ ceremony by which they adopt a warrior.” 

“Was this Genesee of another tribe?” asked Stuart, 
who was always attentive to any information of the 
natives. 


iS8 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Yes, said Rachel quickly, anticipating the others, 
“of a totally different tribe—one of the most extensive 
in America at present.” 

“A youth? A half-breed?” 

“No,” she replied; “an older man than you, and of 
pure blood. Hen, there is Miss Margaret pummeling 
the window for you to notice her. Davy MacDougall, 
did you bring me nothing at all as a relic of your 
trip? Well, I must say times are changing when you 
forget me for an entire week.” 

Both the men looked a little amused at Rachel’s 
truthful yet misleading replies, and thinking it just 
one of her freaks, did not interfere, though it was 
curious to them both that Stuart, living among them 
so many days, had not heard Genesee mentioned 
before. But no late news coming from the southern 
posts, had made the conversations of their troops flag 
somewhat; while Stuart, coming into their circle, 
brought new interests, new topics, that had for the 
while superseded the old, and Genesee’s absence of a 
year had made them count him no longer as a neigh¬ 
bor. Then it may be that Rachel had, ere this warded 
off attention from the subject. She scarcely could ex¬ 
plain to herself why she did it—it was an instinctive 
impulse in the beginning; and sometimes she laughed 
at herself for the folly of it. 

“Never mind,” she would reassure herself by saying, 
“even if I am wrong, I harm no one with the fancy; 
and I have just enough curiosity co make me wonder 
what that man’s real business is in these wilds, for 
he is not nearly so careless as his manner, and not 
nearly so light-hearted as his laugh.” 

“Well, did you find any white men among the Koo- 
tenais?" she asked him abruptly, the day of his return. 


AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


159 


His head, bent that Miss Margaret could amuse her¬ 
self with it, as a toy of immense interest, raised sud¬ 
denly. Much in the girl’s tone and manner to him was 
at times suggestive; this was one of the times. His 
usually pale face was flushed from his position, and 
'his rumpled hair gave him a totally different appear¬ 
ance as he turned on her a look half-compelling in its 
direct regard. 

“What made you ask that?” he demanded, in a tone 
that matched the eyes. 

She laughed; to see him throw off his guard of 
gracious suavity was victory enough for one day. 

“My feminine curiosity prompted the question,’’ 
she replied easily. “Did you?’’ 

“No,” he returned, after a rather steady look at her; 
“none that you could call men.” 

“A specimen, then?” 

“Heaven help the race, if the one I saw was accepted 
as a specimen,” he answered fervently; “a filthy, 
unkempt individual, living on the outskirts of the vil¬ 
lage, and much more degraded than any Indian I met; 
but he had a squaw wife.” 

“Yes, the most of them have—wives or slaves.” 

“Slaves?” he asked incredulously. 

“Actually slaves, though they do not bring the high 
prices we used to ask for those of darker skin in the 
South. Emancipation has not made much progress 
up here. It is too much an unknown corner as yet.” 

“Is it inferior tribes that are bartered, or prisoner^ 
taken in battle?” 

“No, I believe not, necessarily,” she replied, “though 
I suppose such a windfall would be welcomed; but 
if there happens to be any superfluous members in 
a family, it is a profitable way to dispose of them. 


i6o 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


among some of the Columbia Basin Indians, anyway. 
Davy MacDougall can give you more information than 
I, as most of m}^ knowledge is second-hand. But I 
believe this tribe of the Kootenais is a grade above 
that sort of traffic— I mean bartering their own kin¬ 
dred. ” 

“How long have you been out here, Miss Rachel " 
he asked, as abruptly as she had questioned him of 
the white men. 

“About a year—a little over.” 

“And you like ijt?” 

“Yes; I like it.” 

In response to several demands, he 'had enthroned 
Miss Margaret on his lap by this time; and even 
there she was not contented. His head seemed to 
have a special fascination for her babyship; and she 
had such .an insinuating way of snuggling upward 
that she was soon close in his arms, her hands in easy 
reach of his hair, which she did not pull in infantile 
fashion, but dallied with, and patted caressingly. 
There was no mistaking the fact that Stuart was 
prime favorite here at all events; and the affection 
was not one-sided by any means—unless the man was 
a thorough actor. His touch, his voice even, acquired 
a caressing way when Miss Margaret was to be pleased 
or appeased. Rachel, speaking to Tillie of it, won¬ 
dered if his attraction was to children in general or 
to this one in particular; and holding tHe baby that 
her soft, pink cheek was against his own, he seemed 
ruminating over the girl’s replies, and after a little— 
“Yes, you must, of course,” he said thoughtfully; 
“else you could never make yourself seem so much a 
part of it as you do.” 

During the interval of silence the girPs thoughts 


AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


i6i 


had been wandering. She had lost the slight thread of 
their former topic, and looked a little at sea. 

“A part of what?” she asked. 

“Why, the life here. You seem as if you had 
always belonged to it—a bit of local color in harmony 
with the scenes about us.” 

“How flattering! —charmingly expressed! ” murmured 
Miss Hardy derisively. “A bit of local color? Then, 
in Mr. Stuart’s impressions I may look forward to find¬ 
ing myself catalogued among greasy squaws and pict¬ 
uresque squaw men.” 

“You seem to take a great deal of delight in turning 
all I say or do into ridicule,” he observed. “You do 
it on the principle of the country that guys a ‘tender¬ 
foot;’ and that is just one of the things that stamp 
you as a belonging of the life here. I try to think of 
you as a Kentucky girl transplanted, but even the 
fancy eludes me. You impress one as belonging to 
this soil, and more than that, showing a disposition 
to freeze out new-comers. ” 

“I haven’t frozen you out.” 

“No—thanks to my temperament that refuses to con¬ 
geal. I did not leave all my warmth in the South.” 

“Meaning that I did?” 

“Meaning that you, for some reason appear to have 
done so.” 

“Dear me, what a subtle personage you make of 
me! Come here, Margaret; this analyst is likely to 
prejudice you against your only auntie.” 

“Let her be with me,” he said softly, as the baby’s 
big blue eyes turned toward Rachel, and then were 
screened by heavy, white lids; “she is almost asleep 
•—little darling. Is she not a picture? See how she 
clings to my finger—so tight;” and then he dropped 
II 


i62 told il he hills. 

his face until his lips touched the soft cheek. “It is 
a child to thank God for,” he said lovingly. 

The girl looked at him, surprised at the thrill of 
feeling in his tones. 

“You spoke like a woman just then,” she said, her 
own voice changed slightly; “like a—a mother—a par¬ 
ent. ” 

“Did I?” he asked, and arose with the child in his 
arms to deliver it to Aunty Luce. “Perhaps I felt so; 
is that weakness an added cause for trying to bar me 
out from the Kootenai hills?” 

But he walked away without giving her a chance to 
reply. 

She saw nothing more of him until evening, and 
then he was rather quiet, sitting beside Tillie and 
Miss Margaret, with occasional low-toned remarks to 
them, but not joining in the general conversation. 

“What a queer remark that was for a man to make! ” 
thought Rachel, looking at him across the room;—“a 
young man especially; ” and that started her to think¬ 
ing of his age, about which people would have widely 
different opinions. To see him sometimes, laughing 
and joking with the rest, he looked a boy of twenty. 
To hear him talking of scientific researches in his own 
profession and others, of the politics of the day, or 
literature of the age, one would imagine him at least 
forty. But sitting quiet, his face in repose, yet look¬ 
ing tired, his eyes so full of life, yet steeped in rever¬ 
ies, the rare mouth relaxed, unsmiling, then he looked 
what he probably was, thought the girl—about thirty; 
but it was seldom that he looked like that. 

“Therefore,” reasoned this feminine watcher, “it is 
seldom that we see him as he really is; query— 
why? ” 


AT CROSS-. URPOSES. 163 

“Perhaps I felt as a parent feels! ’’ How frank his 
words had been, and how unlike most men he was, to 
give utterance to that thought with so much feeling, 
and how caressing to the child! Rachel had to 
acknowledge that he was original in many ways, and 
the ways were generally charming. His affections 
were so warm, so frankly bestowed; yet that gracious, 
tender manner of his, even when compared with the 
bluntness of the men around him, never made him 
seem effeminate. 

Rachel, thinking of his words, wondered if he had 
a sweetheart somewhere, that made him think of a pos¬ 
sible wife or children longingly—and if so, how that 
girl must love him! 

So, despite her semi-warlike attitude, and her 
delight in thwarting him, she had appreciation 
enough of his personality to understand how possible 
it was for him to be loved deeply. 

Jim, under Miss Hardy^s tuition, had been making 
an attempt to “rope in” an education, and that night 
was reading doubtfully the history of our Glorious 
Republic in its early days; garnishing the statements 
now and then with opinions of his own, especially 
the part relating to the character of the original 
lords of the soil. 

‘*Say, Miss Rache, yer given^ me a straight tip on 
this lay-out?” he said at last, shutting the book and 
eying her closely. 

The question aroused her from the contemplation 
of the Hermes-like head opposite, though she had, 
like Hardy, been pretending to read. 

“Do you mean, is it true?” she asked. 

“Naw! ” answered Jim, with the intonation of 
supreme disgust; “I hain’t no call to ask that; but 


164 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


what Pm curious about is whether the galoot as 
wrote the truck lied by accident—someone sort o^ 
playen’ it on him, ye see—er whether he thought the rest 
o’ creation was chumps from away back, an’ he just 
naturally laid himself out to sell them cheap—now 
say, which is it? ” 

In vain his monitor tried to impress on his mind 
the truth of the chronicles, and the fact that genera¬ 
tions ago the Indian could be truly called a noble 
man, until his child-like faith in the straight tongue 
of the interloper had made a net for their feet, to escape 
which they had recourse only to treachery and the tom¬ 
ahawk, thus carving in history a character that in 
the beginning was not theirs, but one into which they 
were educated by the godly people who came with 
their churches and guns, their religion and whisky, 
to civilize the credulous people of the forests. 

Jim listened, but in the supercilious disbelief in 
his eyes Rachel read the truth. In trying to estab¬ 
lish historical facts for his benefit, she was simply 
losing ground in his estimation at every statement 
made. 

“An’ you," he finally remarked, after listening in 
wonderful silence for him,— “an’ you’ve read it all, 
then?” 

“Yes, most of it." 

“An’ swallowed it as gospel?” 

“Well, not exactly such literal belief as that; but 
I have read not only this history, but others in sup¬ 
port of those facts." 

“Ye have, have yeh?” remarked her pupil, with a 
sarcastic contempt of her book-learning. “Well, I 
allow this one will do me a life-time, fer Pve sccji 
Flatheads, an' Diggers, a7i' Snakes! ” 



AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


165 

And thus ended the first lesson in history. 

“Don’t you think,” said Tillie softly to Stuart, 
“that Rachel would win more glory as a missionary to 
the Indians than among her own race? She is always 
running against stumbling-blocks of past knowledge 
with the progressive white man.” 

Rachel cast one silencing glance at the speaker; 
Tillie laughed. 

“Never mind,” she said reassuringly; “I will say 
nothing about your other attempt, and I only hope you 
will be willing to confine yourself to the Indians near 
home, and not start out to see some Flatheads, and Dig¬ 
gers, and Snakes for yourself.” 

“Lawd bress yeh, honey!" spoke up Aunty Luce, 
whose ears were always open to anything concerning 
their red neighbors; “don’ yo’ go to putten’ no sech 
thoughts in her haid. Miss Rache needs tamen’ down, 
she do, ’stead o’ ’couragement.” 

“Well, it’s precious little encouragement I get here, 
except to grow rusty in everything,” complained Rachel. 
“A crusade against even the Diggers would be a break 
in the monotony. I wish I had gone with you to the 
Kootenai village, Mr. Stuart; that would have been 
a diversion.” 

“But rather rough riding,” he added; “and much of 
the life, and—well, there is a great deal one would 
not care to take a lady to see.” 

“You don’t know how Rachel rides,” said Tillie, 
with a note of praise in her voice; “she rides as hard 
as the men on the ranch. You must go together for 
a ride, some day. She knows the country very well 
already. ” 

But Rachel was thinking of the other part of his 
speech. 


i66 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“I should not have asked to be taken,” she said, 
‘‘but would have gone on my own independence, as one 
of the party.” 

‘‘Then your independence would have led you to 
several sights revolting to a refined nature,” he said 
seriously, ‘‘and you would have wished yourself well 
out of it.’ 

‘‘Well, the Kootenais are several degrees superior to 
other tribes of the Columbia Basin; so you had better 
fight shy of Jim’s knowledge. Why,” she added, 
with a little burst of indignation that their good 
points were so neglected, ‘‘the Kootenais are a self- 
supporting people, asking nothing of the Government. 
They are independent traders. ” 

‘‘Say, Miss Rachel,” broke in Jim, "was Kalitan a 
Kootenai Injun?” 

"No, though he lived with them often. He was of 
the Gros Ventres, a race that belongs to the plains 
rather than the hills." 

"You are already pretty well posted about the differ¬ 
ent tribes,” observed Stuart. 

"Yes, the Lawd knows—humph!” grunted Aunty 
Luce, evidently thinking the knowledge not a thing 
to be proud of. 

"Oh, yes,” smiled Tillie, "Rachel takes easily to 
everything in these hills. You should hear her talk¬ 
ing Chinook to a blanket brave, or exchanging compli¬ 
ments with her special friend, the Arrow.” 

"The Arrow? That is a much more suggestive title 
than the Wahoosh, Kah-kwa, Si pah, and some other 
equally meaningless names I jotted down as I heard 
them up there.” 

"They are only meaningless to strangers,” answered 
the girl. "They all have their own significance.” 


AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


167 

"Why, this same Arrow is called Kalitan,” broke in 
Jim; "an’ what’d you make out of that? Both names 
mean just the same thing. He was called that even when 
he was a little fellow, he said, ’cause he could run like 
a streak. Why, he used to make the trip down to the 
settlement an’ be back here with the mail afore supper, 
makin’ his forty miles afoot after breakfast; how’s that 
for movin’ over rough country?" 

The swiftness did not seem to make the desired 
impression, his listener catching, instead, at the fact of 
their having had an Indian mail-carrier. 

"And where is your Indian messenger of late?” he 
asked. "He has not visited you since my arrival, has he?” 

"No; he left this country months ago, ” said Rachel. 
"Kalitan is a bit of a wanderer—never long in one 
place." 

"Davy MacDougall says he’d alius loaf around here if 
Genesee would, but he’s sure to go trottin’ after Gen¬ 
esee soon as he takes a trail.” 

"That is the Indian you spoke of this morning, is it 
not?” asked Stuart, looking at Rachel. 

"What! ” roared Jim; and Hardy, who was taking 
a nap behind a paper, awoke with a start. "Genesee 
an Injun 1 Well, that’s good I” and he broke into shrill, 
boyish laughter. "Well, you ought to just say it to his 
face, that’s all!” 

"Is he not?” he asked, still looking at the girl, who 
did not answer. 

"Oh, no,” said Tillie; "he is a white man, a—a— 
well, he has lived with the Indians, I believe." 

"I understood you to say he himself was an Indian.” 
And Rachel felt the steady regard of those warm eyes, 
while she tried to look unconscious, and knew she was 
failing. 


i68 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


Hardy laughed, and shook himself rightly awake. 

“Beg your pardon,” he said, coming to the rescue, 
“but she didn’t say so, only gave you the information 
that he was pure-blooded; and I should say he is—as 
much of a white man as you or I. ” 

“Mine was the mistake,” acknowledged Stuart, with 
his old easy manner once more; “but Miss Rachel’s 
love of a joke did not let me fall into it without a 
leader. And may I ask who he is, this white man 
with the Indian name—what is he?” 

Rachel answered him then, brusquely: “You saw a 
white man with the Kootenais, did you not—one who 
lives as they do, with a squaw wife, or slave? You 
described the specimen as more degraded than the 
Indians about him. Well, Genesee is one of the cl ass 
to which that man belongs—a squaw man; and he is 
also an Indian by adoption. Do you think you would 
care for a closer acquaintance?” 

Tillie opened her eyes wide at this sweeping denun¬ 
ciation of Genesee and his life, while even Hardy, 
looked surprised; Rachel had always, before, something 
to say in his favor. But the man she questioned so 
curtly was the only one who did not change even 
expression. He evidently forgot to answer, but sat there 
looking at her, with a little smile in his eyes. 

But once in bed, it did not keep her awake; and the 
gray morning crept in ere she opened her eyes, earlier 
than usual, and from a cause not usual—the sound in the 
yard of a man’s voice singing snatches of song, ignor¬ 
ing the words sometimes, but continuing the air in 
low carols of music, such as speak so plainly of a 
glad heart. It was not yet sun-up, and she rebelled, 
drowsily, at the racket as she rolled over toward 
the window and looked out. There he was, tinker- 


AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


169 


ing at something about his saddle, now and then 
whistling in mimicry of a bird swaying on a leafless 
reed in the garden. She could see the other men, 
out across the open space by the barn, moving around 
as usual, looking after the domestic stock; but until 
one has had a breakfast, no well-regulated individual 
is hilarious or demonstrative, and their movements, as 
she could see, were not marvels of fast locomotion. 
They looked as she felt, she thought, yawningly, and 
groped around for her shoes, and finding them, sat 
down on the side of the bed again and looked out at 
that musical worker in the yard. 

She could hear Aunty Luce tinkling the dishes in 
the kitchen, and Tillie and Miss Margaret, in the next 
room, cooing over some love-story of dawn they were 
telling each other. All seemed drowsy and far off, 
except that penetrating, cheery voice outside. 

“The de’il tak’ him!” she growled, quoting Mac- 
Dougall; “what does the fellow mean by shouting like 
that this time of the night? He is as much of a 
boy as Jim.” 

“Here awa’, there awa’, wandering Willie. 

Here awa’, there awa’, hand awa’ hame!” 

warbled the Stuart, with an accent that suited his 
name; and the girl wakened up a bit to the remem¬ 
brance of the old song, thinking, as she dressed, that, 
social and cheery as he often was, this was the first 
time she had ever heard him sing; and what a res¬ 
onant, yet boyish, timbre thrilled through his voice. 
She threw up the window., 

“Look here! ” she said, with mock asperity, “we are 
willing to make some allowance for national enthusi¬ 
asm, Mr. Charles, Prince of the Stuarts, but rebel at 


170 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


Scotch love-songs shouted under our windows before 
daybreak. ” 

“All right,” he smiled, amiably. “I know one or two 
Irish ones, if you prefer them. 

“Oh, acushla Mavourneen! won’t you marry me? 

Gramachree, Mavourneen; oh, won’t you marry me?” 

Click! went the window shut again, and from the 
inside she saw him looking up at the casement with 
eyes full of triumph and mischief. He was meta¬ 
morphosed in some way. Yesterday he had been seri¬ 
ous and earnest, returning from his hill trip with 
something like despondency, and now— 

She remembered her last sight of him the night 
before, as he smiled at her from the stairway. Ah, 
yes, yes! all just because he had felt jubilant over 
outwitting her, or rather seeing chance do the work 
for him. Was it for that he was still singing? Had 
her instincts then told her truly when she had con¬ 
nected his presence with the memory of that older 
man’s sombre eyes and dogged exile? Well, the exile 
was his own business, not that of anyone else—least 
of all that of this debonair individual, with his vary¬ 
ing emotions. 

And she went down the stairs with a resentful feel¬ 
ing against the light-hearted melody of “Acushla 
Mavourneen. ” 

“Be my champion, Mrs. Hardy," he begged at the 
breakfast-table, “or I am tabooed forever by Miss 
Rachel. ” 

“How so?" 

“By what I intended as an act of homage, giving 
her a serenade at sunrise in the love-songs of my fore¬ 
fathers. " 

“Nonsense!" laughed Rachel. “He never knew what 


AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


I7I 


his forefathers were until Davy MacDougall brushed 
up his history; and you have not thought much of the 
songs you were trying to sing, else you would know 
they belong to the people of the present and future 
as well as the past.” 

“Trying to sing!" was all the comment Mr. Stuart 
made, turning with an injured air to Tillie. 

“Learn some Indian songs,” advised that little con¬ 
spirator impressively; “in the Kootenai country you 
must sing Chinook if you want to be appreciated.” 

“There speaks one who knows,” chimed in Hardy 
lugubriously. “A year ago I had a wife and an undi¬ 
vided affection; but I couldn’t sing Chinook, and the 
other fellow could, and for many consecutive days I 
had to take a back seat." 

“Hen! How dare you?” 

“In fact,” he continued, unrestrained by the little 
woman’s tones or scolding eyes, “I believe I have to 
thank jealousy for ever reinstating me to the head of 
the family.” 

“Indeed," remarked Stuart, with attention impres¬ 
sively flattering; “may I ask how it was effected?” 

“Oh, very simply—very simply. Chance brought her 
the knowledge that there was another girl up the coun¬ 
try to whom her hero sang Chinook songs, and, presto! 
she has ever since found English sufficient for all her 
needs. ” 

And Tillie, finding she had enough to do to defend 
herself without teasing Rachel, gave her attention 
to her husband, and the girl turned to Stuart. 

“All this gives no reason for your spasms of Scotch 
expression this morning,” she reminded him. 

“No? Well, my father confessor in the feminine, 
I was musical—beg pardon, tried to be—because I 


172 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


awoke this morning with an unusually light heart; 
and I sang Scotch songs—or tried to sing them— 
because I was thinking of a Scotchman, and contem¬ 
plating a visit to him to-day.” 

"Davy MacDougall?” 

“The same.” 

“And you were with him only yesterday." ^ 

“And may say good-bye for a long time to him 
to-morrow.” ‘ 

“So you are going?” she asked, in a more subdued 
tone. 

“I believe so!” And for the moment the question 
and answer made the two seem entirely alone, though 
surrounded by the others. Then she laughed in the 
old quizzical, careless way. 

“I see now the inspiration to song and jubilance 
that prevented you from sleeping,” she said, nodding 
her head sagaciously. “It was the thought of escaping 
from us and our isolated life. Is that it?” 

“No, it is not,” he answered earnestly. “My stay 
here has been a pleasure, and out of it I hope will 
grow something deeper—a happiness.” 

The feeling in the words made her look at him 
quickly. His eyes met her own, with some meaning 
back of their warmth that she did not understand. 
Nine girls out of ten would have thought the words 
and manner suggestive of a love declaration, and would 
at once have dropped their eyes in the prettiest air of 
confusion and been becomingly fluttered; but Rachel 
was the tenth, and her eyes were remarkably steady as 
she returned his glance with one of inquiry, and reached 
for another biscuit, and said: 

“Yes?" 

But the low tones and his earnestness had not 


AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


173 


escaped the note of two pairs of eyes at the table—those 
of Mistress Tillie and Master Jim—both of them com¬ 
ing to about the same conclusion in the matter, the 
one that Rachel was flirting, and the other that Stuart 
“had a bad case of spoons.” 

Many were the expostulations when, after breakfast, 
Hardy’s guest informed him that his exit from their 
circle was likely to be almost as abrupt as his 
entrance had been. In vain was there held out to 
him the sport of their proposed hunt—every persuasive 
argument was met with a regretful refusal. 

“I am sorry to put aside that pleasure,” he answered; 
“but, to tell the truth, I scarcely realized how far the 
season has advanced. The snow will soon be deep in 
the mountains, they tell me, and before that time I 
must get across the country to Fort Owens. It is 
away from a railroad far enough to make awkward 
travel in bad weather, and I realize that the time is 
almost past when I can hope for dry days and sun¬ 
shine; so, thinking it over last night, I felt I had 
better start as early as possible.” 

“You know nothing of the country in that direction?” 
asked Hardy. 

“No more than I did of this; but an old school-fel¬ 
low of mine is one of the offlcers there—Captain Sneath. 
I have not seen him for years, but can not consider my 
trip up here complete without visiting him; so, you 
see—” 

“Better fight shy o’ that territory,” advised Andrews, 
chipping in with a cowboy’s brief say-so. “Injun 
faction fights all through thar, an’ its risky, unless 
ye go with a squad—a big chance to pack bullets.” 

“Then I shall have an opportunity of seeing life 
there under the most stirring circumstances,” replied 


174 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


Stuart in smiling unconcern, "for in time of peace 
a military post is about the dullest place one can^ 
find." 

"To be sure," agreed his adviser, eying him dubi¬ 
ously; "an’ if ye find yerself sort o’ pinin’ for the pomp 
o’ war, as I heard an actor spoutin’ about once, in a 
theatre at Helena—well, down around Bitter Root 
River, an’ up the Nez Perce Fork, I reckon you’ll find 
a plenty o’ it jest about this time o’ year." 

"And concluding as I have to leave at once," 
resumed Stuart, turning to Hardy, "I felt like taking 
a ride up to MacDougall’s for a good-bye. I find 
myself interested in the old man, and would not like 
to leave without seeing him again." 

“I rather think Pve got to stay home to-day," said 
his host ruefully, "else I would go with you; but—" 

"Not a word of your going," broke in Stuart; "do 
you think I’ve located here for the purpose of break¬ 
ing up your routine of stock and agricultural 
schemes? Not a bit of it! I’m afraid, as it is, your 
hospitality has caused them to suffer; so not a word 
of an escort. I wouldn’t take a man from the place, 
so—" 

"What about a woman?" asked Rachel, with a chal¬ 
lenging glance that was full of mischief. For a mo¬ 
ment he looked at a loss for a reply, and she continued; 
"Because I don’t mind taking a ride to Davy Mac¬ 
Dougall’s my own self. As you say, the sunny days 
will be few now, and I may not have another chance for 
weeks; so here I am, ready to guide you, escort you, 
and guard you with my life.” 

So what was there left for the man to say? 

"What possessed you to go to-day, Rachel?” asked 
Tillie dubiously. "Do you think it is quite—" 


AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


175 


"Oh, yes, dear—quite,” returned that young lady 
confidently; "and you need not assume that anxious 
air regarding either the proprieties or my youthful 
affections, for, to tell the truth, I am impelled to go 
through sheer perversity; not because your latest 
favorite wants me, but simply because he does not.” 

And they were mounted and clattering away over the 
crisp, bronze turf twenty minutes after her offer. To 
Stuart the task of entertaining a lady whose remarks 
to him seldom verged from the ironical was anything 
but a sinecure—more, it was easy to see that he was 
unused to it; and an ungallant query to himself was: 
"Why did she come, anyway?” He had not heard 
her reply to Tillie. 

The air was crisp and cold enough to make their 
heavy wraps a comfort, especially when they reached 
the higher land; the sun was showing fitfully, low- 
flying, skurrying clouds often throwing it in eclipse. 

"Snow is coming,” prophesied the girl, with a 
weather-eye to the north, where the sky was banking 
up in pale-gray masses; ‘‘perhaps not heavy enough 
to impede your trip south, to Owens, but that bit 
over there looks like a visiting-card of winter.” 

"How weather-wise you are!” he observed. ‘‘Now I 
had noticed not the slightest significance in all that; 
in fact, you seem possessed of several Indian accom¬ 
plishments—their wood-lore, their language, their 
habit of going to nature instead of an almanac; and 
did not Mrs. Hardy say you knew some Indian songs? 
Who taught you them?” 

‘‘Songs came near getting us into a civil war at 
breakfast,” she observed, "and I am not sure that the 
ground is any more safe around Indian than Scotch 
ones. ” 


176 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“There is something more substantial of the former 
race,” he said, pointing ahead. 

It was the hulking figure of a Siwash, who had seen 
them first and tried to dodge out of sight, and failing, 
halted at the edge of a little stream. 

“Hostile?” queried Stuart, relying more on his com¬ 
panion’s knowledge than his own; but she shook her 
head. 

“No; from the Reservation, I suppose. He doesn’t 
look like a blanket brave. We will see.” 

Coming within speaking distance, she hailed him 
across the divide of the little stream, and got in reply 
what seemed to Stuart an inextricable mass of staccatos 
and gutturals. 

“He is a Kootenai,” she explained, “and wants to 
impress on our minds that he is a good Indian.” 

“He does not look good for much,” was the natural 
remark of the white man, eying Mr. Kootenai critic¬ 
ally; “even on'his native heath he is not picturesque.” 

“No—poor imp!” agreed the girl; “with winter so 
close, their concern is more how they are to live than 
how they appear to people who have no care for 
them. ” 

She learned he was on his way south to the Flathead 
Reservation; so he had evidently solved the ques¬ 
tion of how he intended living for the winter, at all 
events. He was, however, short of ammunition. 
When Rachel explained his want, Stuart at once 
agreed to give him some. 

“Don’t be in a hurry!” advised his commander-in¬ 
chief; “wait until we know how it is that he has^ no 
ammunition, and so short a distance from his tribe. An 
Indian can always get that much if he is not too lazy 
to hunt or trap, or is not too much of a thief.” 


AT CROSS-PURPOSES. 


177 


But she found the noble red rnan too proud to 
answer many questions of a squaw. The fear, however, 
of hostilities from the ever-combative Blackfeet seemed 
to be the chief moving cause. 

“Rather a weak-backed reason,” commented Rachel; 
“and I guess you can dig roots from here to the Res¬ 
ervation. No powder, no shot.” 

“Squaw—papoose—sick,” he added, as a last appeal 
to sympathy. 

“Where?” ^ 

He waved a dirty hand up the creek. 

“Go on ahead; show us where they are.” 

His hesitation was too slight to be a protest, but 
still there was a hesitation, and the two glanced at 
each other as they noticed it. 

“I don’t believe there is either squaw or papoose,” 
decided Stuart. “Lo is a romancer.” 

But there was, huddled over a bit of fire, and holding 
in her arms a little bundle of bronze flesh and blood. 
It was, as the Indian had said, sick—paroxysms of 
shivers assailing it from time to time. 

“Give me your whisky-flask!” Rachel said promptly; 
and dismounting, she poured some in the tin cup at her 
saddle and set it on the fire—the blue, sputtering flame 
sending the odor of civilization into the crisp air. Cool¬ 
ing it to suit baby’s lips, she knelt beside the squaw, 
who had sat stolidly, taking no notice of the new¬ 
comers; but as the girl’s hand was reached to help 
the child she raised her head, and then Rachel knew 
who she was. 

They did not speak, but after a little of the warm 
liquor had forced itself down the slight throat, Rachel 
left the cup in the mother’s hands, and reached again 
for the whisky. 


12 


178 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


"You can get more from Davy MacDougall," she said, 
in a half-conciliatory tone at this wholesale confiscation; 
‘‘and—and you might give him some ammunition—not 
much. ” 

‘‘What a vanishing of resolves!” he remarked, meas¬ 
uring out an allowance of shot; "and all because of a 
copper-colored papoose. So you have a bit of natural, 
womanly weakness?” 

The girl did not answer; there was a certain air of 
elation about her as she undid a scarf from her throat 
and wrapped it about the little morsel of humanit5^ 

"Go past the sheep ranch,” she directed the passive 
warrior, who stood gazing at the wealth in whisky and 
powder. "Do you know where it is—Hardy’s? Tell them 
I sent you— show them that,” and she pointed to the 
scarf ; "tell them what you need for squaw and papoose; 
they will find it. ” 

Skulking Brave signified that he understood, and 
then led Betty toward her. 

“He is not very hospitable,” she confided to Stuart, 
in the white man’s tongue, "else he would not be in 
such haste to get rid of us.” 

And although their host did not impress one as 
having a highly strung nervous organization, yet his 
manner during their halt gave them the idea that he 
was ill at ease. They did not tarry long, but having 
given what help they could, rode away, lighter of 
whisky and ammunition, and the girl, strange enough, 
seemed lighter of heart. 

After they had reached a point high above the little 
creek, they turned for a look over the country passed. 
It lay in brown and blue-gray patches, with, on the 
highlands, dashes of dark-green where the pines 
grew. 


AT CR 0 S 3 -PURP 0 SES. 


179 


“What is the white thing moving along that line 
of timber?” asked the girl, pointing in the direction 
they had come. It was too far off to see clearly, but 
with the aid of Stuart’s field-glass, it was decided to 
be the interesting family they had stopped with a 
little ways back. And the white thing noticed was a 
horse they were riding. It was getting over the ground 
at the fastest rate possible with its triple weight, for 
the squaw was also honored with a seat back of her 
lord. 

“I imagined they were traveling on foot, didn^t you?” 
asked Stuart. 

“What a fool he was to steal a white horse! ” 
remarked the girl contemptuously; “he might know it 
would be spotted for miles.” 


i 8 o 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A TRIO IN WITCHLAND. 

The noon was past when they reached the cabin on 
Scot’s Mountain, and found its owner on the point of 
leaving for the Maple range. But quickl}^ replacing 
his gun on its pegs, he uncovered the fire, set on the 
coffee-pot, and, with Rachel’s help, had, in a ver}^ short 
time, a steaming-hot dinner of broiled bear steaks 
and “corn-dodgers,” with an additional delicacy in a 
bowl of honey from the wild bees’ store. 

“I have some laid by as a bit of a gift to Mr. Hard3^’s 
lady,” he confided to Rachel. “I found this fellow,” 
tapping the steak, “in one o’ the traps as I was a-com- 
in’ my way home; an’ the fresh honey on his paws 
helped me smell out where he had spied it, and a good 
lot o’ it there was that Mr. Grizzly had na reached.” 

"See here,” said Stuart, .noting that the old man 
had relinquished, because of their visit, all idea of 
going to the woods, “we must not interfere with 
your plans, for at the best we have but a short time 
to stay.” And then he explained the reason. 

And when the question of snow was taken into 
account, Davy agreed that Stuart’s decision was per¬ 
haps wise; but “he was main sorry o’ the neces¬ 
sity. ” 

“An’ it's to Owens ye be taken’ the trail?” he asked. 
“Eh, but that’s curious now. I have a rare an’ good 
friend thereabouts that I would be right glad to send 
a word to; an’ I was just about to take a look at his 




A TRIO IN WITCHLAND. 


l8l 


tunnel an’ the cabin, when ye come the day, just to 
see it was all as it should be ere the snows set in.” 

“I would be delighted to be of any service to you,” 
said Stuart warmly; “and to carry a message is a very 
slight one. Who is your friend?” 

‘‘It’s just the man Genesee, who used to be my 
neighbor. But he’s left me alone now these many 
months—about a year;” and he turned to Rachel for 
corroboration. 

‘‘More than a year,” she answered briefly. 

‘‘Well, it is now. I’m losin’ track o’ dates these 
late days; but you’re right, lass, an’ the winter would 
ha’ been ower lonely if it had na been for yourself. 
Think o’ that, Charlie Stuart: this slim bit o’woman¬ 
kind substituting herself for a rugged build o’ a man 
taller than you by a half-head, an’ wi’ no little suc¬ 
cess, either. But,” he added teasingly, ‘‘ye owed 
me the debt 6 ’ your company for the sending o’ him 
away; so ye were only honest after all, Rachel 
Hardy. ” 

Rachel laughed, thinking it easier, perhaps, to dis¬ 
pose of the question thus than by any disclaimer— 
especially with the eyes of Stuart on her as they 
were. 

‘‘You are growing to be a tease,” she answered. 
"You will be saying I sent Kalitan and Talapa, next.” 

‘‘But Talapa has na gone from the hills?” 

"Hasn’t she? Well, I saw her on the trail, going 
direct south, this morning, as fast as she could get 
over the ground^ with, as companions, a warrior and a 
papoose. ” 

‘‘Did ye now? Well, good riddance to them. They 
ha’ been loafing around the Kootenai village evet 
since I sent them from the cabin in the summer. 


i82 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 




That Talapa was a sleepy-eyed bit o’ old Nick. I told 
Genesee that same from the first, when he was wasting 
his stock o’ pity on her. Ye see,” he said, turning 
his speech to Stuart, ‘‘a full-blooded Siwash has some 
redeeming points, and a character o’ their own; but 
the half-breeds are a part white an’ a part red, with a 
good wheen o’ the devil’s temper thrown in.” 

“She didn’t appear to have much of the last this 
morning,” observed Rachel. “She looked pretty mis¬ 
erable. ” 

“Ah, well, tak’ the best o’ them, an’ they look that 
to the whites. An’ so they’re flittin’ to the Reservation 
to live off the Government? Skulking Bob’ll be too 
lazy to be even takin’ the chance o’ fightin’ with his 
people against the Blackfeet, if trouble should come; 
and there’s been many a straggler from the rebels mak- 
in’ their way north to the Blackfeet, an’ that is like 
to breed mischief.” 

“And your friend is at Owens?” 

“Yes—or thereabouts. One o’ the foremost o’ their 
scouts, they tell me, an’ a rare good one he is, with 
no prejudice bn either side o’ the question.” 

“I should think, being a white man, his sympathies 
would lean toward his own race,” observed Stuart. 

“Well, that’s as may chance. There’s many the 
man who finds his best friends in strange blood. 
Genesee is thought no little of among the Kootenais 
—more, most like, than he would be where he was born 
and bred. Folk o’ the towns know but little how to 
weigh a man.” 

“And is he from the cities?” 

For the first time Davy MacDougall looked up 
quickly. 

“I know not,” he answered briefly, “an’, not giving 


A TRIO IN WITCHLAND. 183 

to you a short answer, I care not. Few questions 
make long friends in the hills.” 

Stuart was somewhat nonplussed at the bluntness of 
the hint, and Rachel was delighted. 

"You see,” she reminded him wickedly, “one can be 
an M. D., an L. S. D., or any of the annexations, with¬ 
out Kootenai people considering his education finished. 
But look here, Davy MacDougall, we only ran up to 
say ^kal/iowya,^ and have got to get back to-night; so, 
if you are going over to Tamahnous cabin, don’t stop 
on our account; we can go part of the way with 
you. ” 

“But ye can go all the way, instead o’ but a part, 
an’ then no be out o’ your road either,” he said, with 
eagerness that showed how loath he was to part from 
his young companions. “Ye know,” he added, turn¬ 
ing to Rachel, “it is but three miles by the cross-cut 
to Genesee’s, while by the valley ye would cover eight 
on the way. Now, the path o’er the hills is no fit for 
the feet o’ a horse, except it be at the best o’ sea¬ 
sons; but this is an ower good one, with neither the 
rain nor the ice; an’ if ye will risk it—” 

Of course they would risk it; and with a draught 
apiece from an odorous, dark-brown jug, and the gift 
of a flask that found its way to Stuart’s pocket, they 
started. 

And they needed that swallow of brandy as a brace 
against the cold wind of the hills. It hustled through 
the pines like winged fiends let loose from the north. 
Dried berries from the bushes and cones from the trees 
were sent pattering to sleep for the winter, and the 
sighs through the green roofing, and the moans from 
twisted limbs, told of the hardihood needed for life 
up there. The idea impressed Stuart so much that he 


184 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


gave voice to it, and was laughed at grimly by the old 
mountaineer. 

“Oh, well, it just takes man to be man, an’ that’s 
all when all’s said, ” he answered. “To be sure, there be 
times when one canna stir for the snow wreaths, but 
that’s to be allowed for; an’ then ye may ha’ took 
note that my cabin is in shelter o’ all but the south 
wind, an’ that’s a great matter. Men who live in the 
mountain maun get used to its frolics; but it’s an 
ugly bit,” he acknowledged, as they stopped to rest 
and lock up over the seemingly pathless way they 
had come; “but I’ve been thankful for it many’s the 
time, when, unlocked for, Genesee and Mowitza would 
show their faces at my door, an’ she got so she could 
make that climb in the dark—think o’ that! Ah, but 
she was the wise one! ” 

Stuart glanced at Rachel, who was more likely than 
himself to understand who was meant by the “wise 
one; ” but he did not venture again on a question. 
Mowitza was another squaw, he supposed, and one of 
the companions of the man Genesee. And the other 
one they had passed in the morning?—her name also 
was connected with the scout whom the white girl 
seemed to champion or condemn as the fancy pleased 
her. And Stuart, as a stranger to the social system 
of the wilderness, had his curiosity widely awakened. 
And a good deal of it was directed to Rachel herself. 
Hearing MacDougall speak of the man to her, he 
could understand that she had no lack of knowledge 
in that direction—and the direction was one of which 
the right sort of a girl was supposed to be ignorant; 
or, if not ignorant, to at least conceal her wisdom in 
the wise way of her sisters. 

But this one did nothing of the sort; and the 


A TRIO IN WITCHLAND. 


185 

series of new impressions received made him observe 
the girl with a scrutiny not so admiring as he had 
always, until now, given her. He was irritated with 
himself that it was so, yet his ideas of what a woman 
should be were getting some hard knocks at her 
hands. 

Suddenly the glisten of the little lake came to them 
through the gray trunks of the trees, and a little 
later they had descended the series of small circular 
ridges that terraced the cove from the timber to the 
waters, that was really not much more than an immense 
spring that happened to bubble up where there was a 
little depression to spread itself in and show to 
advantage. 

“But a mill would be easily turned by that same 
bit o’ water,” observed MacDougall; “an’ there’s 
where Genesee showed the level head in locating his 
claim where he did.” 

“It looks like wasted power, placed up here," ob¬ 
served Stuart, “for it seems about the last place in 
Christendom for a mill.” 

“Well, so it may look to many a pair o’ eyes," 
returned the old man, with a wink and a shrug that 
was indescribable in action, but suggested a vast deal 
of unuttered knowledge; “but the lad who set store 
by it because o’ the water-power was a long ways 
from a fool, I can tell ye.” 

And again Stuart found himself trying to count the 
spokes of some shadowy wheels within wheels that 
had a trick of eluding him; and he felt irritatingly 
confident that the girh looking at him with quizzical, 
non-committal eyes could have enlightened him much 
as to the absent ruler of this domain, who, accord¬ 
ing to her own words, was utterly degraded, yet had 


i 86 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


a trick of keeping his personality such a living thing 
after a year’s absence. 

The cabin was cold with the chill dreariness of 
any house that is left long without the warmth of an 
embodied human soul. Only the wandering, homeless 
spirits of the air had passed in and out, in and out of 
its chinks, sighing through them for months, until, on 
entrance, one felt an intuitive, sympathetic shiver for 
their loneliness. 

A fire was soon crackling on the hearth; but the red 
gleams did not dance so merrily on the rafters as they 
had done the first time she had been warmed at the 
fire-place—the daylight was too merciless a rival. It 
penetrated the corners with the rude bunk and some 
mining implements; from a rafter hung a roll of skins 
done up in bands of some pliable withes. 

Evidently Genesee’s injunction had been obeyed; 
for even the pottery, and reed baskets, and bowls still 
shone from the box of shelves. 

"It’s a mystery to me those things are not stolen by 
the Indians," observed Stuart, noticing the lack of 
any fastening on the door, except a bar on the inside. 

"There’s no much danger o’ that," said the old man 
grimly, "unless it be by a Siwash who knows naught 
o’ the country. The Kootenai people would do no 
ill to Genesee, nor would any Injun when he lives 
in the Ta7nahnous gro\ind.'' 

"What territory is that?” 

"Just the territory o’ witchcraft -no less. The old 
mine and the spring, with the circle o’ steps down to 
it, they let well alone, I can tell ye; and as for steal- 
in’, they’d no take the worth o’ a tenpenny nail from 
between the two hills that face each other, an’ the 
rocks o’ them gives queer echoes that they canna 


A TRIO IN WITCHLAND. 


187 


explain. Oh, yes, they have their witches, an’ their 
warlocks, an’ enchanted places, an’ will no go against 
their belief, either.” 

“But,” said Rachel, with a slight hesitation,"Talapa 
was not afraid to live here.” 

‘‘An’ did ye not know, then, that she was not o’ Koote¬ 
nai stock?” asked the old man. ‘‘Well, she was not a 
bit o’ it; Genesee bought her of a beast of a Blackfoot. ” 

‘‘Bought her?” asked Stuart, and even Rachel 
opened her eyes in attention—perhaps, after all, not 
knowing so much as the younger man had angrily 
given her credit for. 

"Just that; an’ dear she would ha’ been at most any 
price. But she was a braw thing to look at, an’ young 
enough to be sorry o’er. An’ so when he come across 
her taken’ a beating like a mule he could na stand it; 
an’ the only way he could be sure o’ putting an end 
to it was by maken’ a bargain; an’ that’s just what he 
did, an’ a’most afore he had time to take thought, 
the girl was his, an’ he had to tek her with him. 
Well,” and the old man laughed comically at the 
remembrance, ‘‘you should ha’ seen him at the cornin’ 
home!—tried to get her off his hands by leavin’ her 
an’ a quitclaim at my cabin; but I’d have none 
o’ that—no half-breed woman could stay under a roof 
o’ mine; an’ the finish o’ it was he hed to bring her 
here to keep house for him, an’ a rueful commence¬ 
ment it was. Then it was but a short while ’til he 
got hurt one day in the tunnel, an’ took a deal o’ 
care before he was on his feet again. Well, ye know- 
womankind make natural nurses, an’ by the time she 
had him on the right trail again he had .got o’ the 
mind that Talapa was a necessity o’ the cabin; an’ 
so ye may know she staid.” 


i 88 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“In what tunnel was he injured?’’ asked Stuart. 

“Why, just—" 

“There’s your horse ranging calmly up toward the 
timber,” observed Rachel, turning from the window to 
Stuart. “Do you want to walk to the ranch?” 

“Well, not to-day; " and a moment later he was out 
the door and running across the terraced meadow. 

“Don’t tell him too much about the tunnel,” sug¬ 
gested the girl, when she and the old man were alone. 

“Why, lass,”— he began; but she cut him short 
brusquely, keeping her eye on the form on the hill-side. 

“Oh, he may be all right; but it isn’t like you, 
Davy MacDougall, to tell all you know to strangers, 
even if they do happen to have Scotch names—you, 
clannish old goose!” 

“But the lad’s all right.” 

“Maybe he is; but you’ve told him enough of the 
hills now to send him away thinking we are all a 
rather mixed and objectionable lot. Oh, yes, he does 
too!” as Davy tried to remonstrate. “I don’t care how 
much you tell him about the Indians; but that tunnel 
may have something in it that Genesee wouldn’t want 
Eastern speculators spying into while he’s away—do 
you see?” 

Evidently he did, and the view was not one flatter¬ 
ing to his judgment, for, in order to see more clearly, 
he took off his fur cap, scratched his head, and then 
replacing the covering with a great deal of energy, 
he burst out: 

“Well, d—n a fool, say I.” 

Rachel paid not the slightest attention to this pro¬ 
fane plea. 

“I suppose he’s all right,” she continued; “only 
when somebody’s interest is at stake, especially a 


A TRIO IN WITCHLAND. 


189 

friend^s, we oughtn’t to take things for granted, and 
keeping quiet hurts no one, unless it be a stranger’s 
curiosity. ” 

The old man looked at her sharply. “Ye dinna 
like him, then?” 

She hesitated, her eyes on the tall form leading 
back the horse. Just then there seemed a strange 
likeness to Mowitza and Genesee in their manner, for 
the beast was tossing its head impatiently, and he was 
laughing, evidently teasing it with the fact of its capt¬ 
ure. 

“Yes, I do like him,” she said at last; “there is 
much about him to like. But we must not give away 
other people’s affairs because of that.” 

“Right you are, my lass,” answered Davy; “an’ it’s 
rare good sense ye show in remindin’ me o’ the same. 
It escapes me many’s the time that he’s a bit of a 
stranger when all’s said; an’ do ye know, e’en at the 
first he had no the ways of a stranger to me. I used 
to fancy that something in his build, or it may ha’ 
been but the voice, was like to—” 

“You are either too old or not old enough to have 
fancies, Davy MacDougall,” interrupted the girl 
briskly, as Stuart re-entered. “Well, is it time to be 
moving?” 

He looked at his watch. 

“Almost; but come to the fire and get well warmed 
before we start. I believe it grows colder; here, take 
this seat.” 

“Well, I will not,” she answered, looking about her; 
“don’t let your gallantry interfere with your comfort, 
for I’ve a chair of my own when I visit this witchy 
quarter of the earth—yes, there it is. ” 

And from the corner by the bunk she drew forward 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


igo 

the identical chair on which she had sat through the 
night at her only other visit. But from her speech 
Stuart inferred that this time was but one of the many. 

“What are you going to do here, Davy MacDougall ?" 
she asked, drawing her chair close beside him and 
glancing comprehensively about the cabin; “weather¬ 
board it up for winter?” 

“Naw, scarcely that,” he answered good-humoredly; 
“but just to gather up the blankets or skins, or aught 
that the weather or the rats would lay hold of, and 
carry them across the hills to my own camp till the 
spring comes; mayhaps he may come with it.” 

But the hope was not very strong in his voice, and 
the plaintiveness in it was stronger than he knew. The 
other two felt it, and were silent. 

"An* will ye be tellin* him for me,” he continued, 
after a little, to Stuart, “that all is snug an’ safe, an* 
that ril keep them so, an* a welcome with them, 
against his return? An* just mention, too, that his 
father. Grey Eagle, thinks the time is long since he 
left, an* that the enemy—Time—is close on his trail. 
An* —an* that the day he comes back will be holiday 
in the hills.” 

"The last from Grey Eagle or yourself?” asked 
Stuart teasingly. But the girl spoke up, covering the 
old man’s momentary hesitation. 

"From me,” she said coolly; “if any name is needed 
to give color to so general a desire, you can use mine." 

His face flushed; he looked as if about to speak to 
her, but, instead, his words were to MacDougall. 

"I will be very glad to carry the word to your friend," 
he said; “it is but a light weight.” 

“Yes, I doubt na it seems so to the carrier, but I 
would no think it so light a thing to ha* word o* the 


A -TRIO IN WITCHLAND. 


tgv 


lad. We ha^ been neighbors, ye see, this five year, with 
but little else that was civilized to come near us. An^ 
there’s a wide difference atween neighbors o’ stone 
pavements an’ neighbors o’ the hills—a fine differ¬ 
ence. ’’ 

“Yes, there is,” agreed the girl; and from their tones 
one would gather the impression that all the splendors 
of a metropolis were as nothing when compared with 
the luxuries of “shack” life in the “bush.” 

“Can ye hit the trail down at the forks without me 
along?” asked MacDougall, with a sudden remembrance 
of the fact that Rachel did not know the way so well from 
the “Place of the Tamahnous” as she did from Scot’s 
Mountain. But she nodded her head independently. 

"I can, Davy MacDougall. And you are paying me 
a poor compliment when you ask me so doubtfully. 
I’ve been prowling through the bush enough for this 
past year to know it for fifty miles around, instead of 
twenty. And now if your highness thinks we’ve had 
our share of this fire, let us ‘move our freight,’ ‘hit 
the breeze,’ or any other term of the woolly West that 
means action, and get up and git.” 

“I am at your service,” answered Stuart, with a gra¬ 
ciousness of manner that made her own bravado more 
glaring by contrast. He could see she assumed much 
for the sake of mischief and irritation to himself; 
and his tone in reply took an added intonation of 
refinement; but the hint was lost on her—she only 
laughed. 

“I tell you what it is, Davy MacDougall,” she 
remarked to that gentleman, “this slip of your nation 
has been planted in the wrong century. He belongs 
to the age of lily-like damsels in sad-colored frocks, 
and knights of high degree on bended knee and their 


192 


TOLD IN THE, HILLS. 


armor hung to the rafters. I get a little mixed in my 
dates sometimes, but believe it was the age when caps 
and bells were also in fashion.” 

"Dinna mind her at all,” advised the old man; 
“sheM be doin’ ye a good turn wi’ just as ready a 
will as she would mak’ sport o’ ye. Do I not know 
her?—ah, but I do!” 

“So does the Stuart,” said Rachel; ‘‘and as for 
doing him a good turn, I proved my devotion in that 
line this morning, when I saved him from a lonely, 
monotonous ride—didn’t I?” she added, glancing up 
at him. 

“You look positively impish,” was the only reply he 
made; and returning her gaze with one that was half 
amusement, half vexation, he went out for the horses 

“You see, he didn’t want me at all, Davy MacDou- 
gall,” confided the girl, and if she felt any chagrin she 
concealed it admirably. “But they’ve been talking 
some about Genesee down at the ranch, and—and 
Stuart’s interest was aroused. I didn’t know how 
curious he might be—Eastern folks are powerful so”— 
and in the statement and adoption of vernacular she 
seemed to forget how lately she was of the East her¬ 
self; “and I concluded he might ask questions, or 
encourage you to talk about—well, about the tunnel, 
you know; so I just came along to keep the trail free 
of snags—see?” 

The old man nodded, and watched her in a queer, 
dubious way; as she turned, a moment later, to speak 
to Stuart at the door, she noticed it, and laughed. 

“You think I’m a bit loony,, don’t you, Davy Mac- 
Dougall? Well, I forgive you. May be, some day, 
you’ll see I’m not on a blind trail. Come and see us 
soon, and give me a chance to prove my sanity.” 


A TRIO IN WITCHLAND. 


193 


“Strange that any mind could doubt it,” murmured 
Stuart. “Come, we haven’t time for proofs of the ques¬ 
tion now. Good-bye, MacDougall; take care of your¬ 
self for the winter. Perhaps Pll get back in the sum¬ 
mer to see how well you have done so.” 

A hearty promise of welcome, a hand-clasp, a few 
more words of admonition and farewell, and then the 
two young people rode away across the ground deemed 
uncanny by the natives; and the old man went back to 
his lonely task. 

On reaching the ranch at dusk, it was Rachel who was 
mildly hilarious, seeming to have changed places with 
the gay chanter of the dawn. He was not sulky, but 
something pretty near it was in his manner, and rather 
intensified under Miss Hardy’s badinage. 

She told the rest of him dividing his whisky 
with the squaw; hinted at a fear that he intended 
adopting the papoose; gave them an account of the 
conversation between himself and Skulking Brave; and 
otherwise made their trip one of ridicule. 

“Did you meet with Indians?” asked Tillie, trying 
to get the girl down to authentic statements. 

“Yes, my dear, we did, and I sent them home to you 
—or told them to come; but they evidently had not 
time for morning calls.” 

“Were they friendly?” 

“Pretty much—enough so to ask for powder and 
shot. None of the men sighted them?” 

“No.” 

“And no other Indians?” 

“No—why?” 

“Only that I would not like Talapa to be roughly 
unhorsed. ” 

“Talapa! Why, Rachel, that’s—” 


194 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Yes, of course it is—with a very promising family in 
tow. Say, suppose you hustle Aunty up about that 
supper, won’t you? And have her give the Stuart 
something extra’nice; he has had a hard day of it." 


\ 


r 



i» 


A VISIT IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


195 


CHAPTER V. 

A VISIT IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 
Yahka kelapie. 


The snows had dropped a soft cloak over the Koo¬ 
tenai hills, and in the valleys lay in great beds of 
crystallized down. RachePs prophecy had proven a 
true one, for the clouds that day had been a visiting- 
card from winter. 

That day was two weeks old now; so was Stuart* s 
leave-taking, and at the ranch life had dropped into 
the old lines, but with an impression of brightness 
lost. Miss Margaret had not yet got over the habit of 
turning quickly if anyone entered the room, and show¬ 
ing her disappointment in a frown when it was not 
the one looked for. 

Aunty Luce declared she "nevah did see a chile so 
petted on one who wasn’t no kin.” 

All of them discovered they had been somewhat “pet¬ 
ted” on the genial nature. The evenings were again 
passed with magazines or cards; during his stay there 
had been revived the primitive custom of taking turns 
telling stories, and in that art Stuart had proven him¬ 
self a master, sometimes recounting actual experiences 
of self or friends, again giving voice to some remem¬ 
bered gem of literature; but, whatever the theme, 
there was given to it life, through the sympathetic 
tendencies of the man who had so much the timber of 
an actor—or rather an artist—the spirit that tends to 
reproduce or create. 


196 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


If Rachel missed him, she kept quiet about it, and 
ridiculed the rest if any regrets came to her ears. But 
no one minded that much; Rachel ridiculed everyone 
—even herself. Sometimes she thought Fate seemed 
more than willing to help her. One night, two weeks 
after that ride from the “Place of the Tamahnous, ” she 
was struck with a new conviction of the fact. 

Andrews had gone to Holland’s for the mail and 
domestic miscellany. A little after sun-up he had 
started, and the darkness was three hours old, and yet 
no sign or sound. The rest had finally given up the 
idea of getting any letters that night, and had gone 
to bed. As usual, Rachel—the night-owl of the fam¬ 
ily—was left the last guard at the warm hearth. Up¬ 
stairs she could hear Jim’s voice in the “boys’" room, 
telling * Ivans some exploit whose character was 
denoted by one speech that made its way through the 
ceiling of pine boards: 

“Yes, sir; my horse left his’n half a length' behind 
every time it hit the ground.” 

Ivans grunted. Evidentl}^ he had listened to re¬ 
citals from the same source before, and was too tired 
for close attention; anyway, the remarks of this Truth¬ 
ful James drifted into a monologue, and finally into 
silence, and no sound of life was left in the house. 

She had been reading a book Stuart had sent back 
to her with Hardy, the day he left. She wondered a 
little why, for he had never spoken to her of it. It 
was a novel, a late publication, and by an author 
whose name she had seen affixed to magazine work; 
and the charm in it was undeniable—the charm of 
quiet hearts and restful pictures, that proved the writer 
a lover of the tender, sympathetic tones of life, rather 
than the storms and battles of human emotions. 


A VISIT IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


197 


And it had held the girl with a puzzling, unusual 
interest—one that in spite of her would revert from 
the expressed thoughts on the paper to the personality 
of the man who had sent it to her, and finding, in 
man}^ instances, a mystifying likeness. 

She sat there thinking drowsily over it, and filled 
with the conviction that it was really time to go to 
bed; but the big chair was so comfortable, and the 
little simmer of the burning wood was like a lullaby, 
and she felt herself succumbing, without the slight¬ 
est rebellion, to the restful influence. She was aroused 
by the banging of a door some^vhere, and decided that 
Andrews had at last returned; and remembering tfie 
number of things he had to bring in, concluded to go 
out and help him. Her impulse was founded as much 
on economy as generosity, for the late hour was pretty 
good proof that Andrews was comfortably drunk—also 
that breakages were likely to be in order. 

It was cloudy—only the snow gave light; the air 
was not cold, but had in it the soft ess of rain. 
Over it she walked quickly, fully awakened by the 
thought of the coffee getting a bath of vinegar, or the 
mail mucilaged together with molasses. 

“Oh, here you are at last! ” she remarked, in that inane 
way people have when they care not whether you are 
here or in the other place. “You took your own time. ” 

“Well, I didn’t take any other fellow’s!” returned 
the man from the dark corner where he was unsad¬ 
dling the horse. 

Andrews was usually very obsequious to Miss Rachel, 
and she concluded he must be pretty drunk. 

“I came out to help you with the things,” she 
remarked from her post in the door-way; “where are 
they?” 


198 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Pve got ’em myself,” came the gruff tones again 
from the corner. “I reckon I’ll manage without help. 
You’d better skip for the house—you’ll catch cold 
likely, ” 

"Why, it isn’t cold—are you? I guess Aunty left 
a lunch for you. I’ll go and warm the coffee.” 

She started, and then stopped. 

"Say, did you get any letters for me?” 

“No.” 

With a grumble about her ill-luck, she started back 
toward the house, the late arrival following a little 
ways behind with something over his shoulder. Once 
slie looked back. 

‘‘I rather think Andrews gets on dignified drunks,” she 
soliloquized; ‘‘he is walking pretty straight, anyway. ” 

She set the coffee-pot on the coals and glanced at 
the bundle he had dropped just inside the door—it 
was nothing but a blanket and a saddle. 

‘‘Well, upon my word!” she began, and rose to her 
feet; but she did not say any more, for, in turning to 
vent her displeasure on Andrews, she was tongue- 
tied by the discovery that it was not he who had fol¬ 
lowed her from the stable. 

‘‘Genesee! ” she breathed, in a tone a little above a 
whisper. “A/a/i mika chahko!" 

She was too utterly astonished to either move 
toward him or offer her hand; but the welcome in 
her Indian words was surely plain enough for him to 
understand. It was just like him, however, to not 
credit it, and he smiled a grim understanding of his 
own, and walked over to a chair. 

‘‘Yes, that’s who it is,” he remarked. ‘‘I am sorry, 
for the sake of your hopes, that it isn’t the other 
fellow; but—here I am.” 


A VISIT IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


199 


He had thrown his hat beside him and leaned back 
in the big chair, shutting his eyes sleepily. She had 
never seen him look so tired. 

^^Tillikunii I am glad to see you again,” she said, 
going to him and holding out her hand. He smiled, 
but did not open his eyes 

“It took you a long time to strike that trail,” he 
observed. “What brought you out to the stable?" 

“I thought you were Andrews, and that you were 
drunk and would break things.” 

“Oh!” 

“And I a7n glad to see you. Jack.” 

He opened his eyes then. “Thank you, little girl. 
That is a good thing for a man to hear, and I believe 
you. Come here. It was a good thing for me to get 
that word from Kalitan, too. I reckon you know all 
that, though, or you wouldn’t have sent it." 

She did not answer, but stooped to lift the pot of 
coffee back from the blaze. The action recalled him 
to the immediate practical things, and he said: 

“Think I can stay all night here?” 

“I don’t know of any reason to prevent it." 

“Mowitza was used up, and I wanted a roof for her; 
but I didn’t allow to come to the house myself.” 

“Where would you have slept?” 

“In my blanket, on the hay.” 

“Just as if we would let you do that on our place! ” 

“No one would have known it if you had kept away 
from the stable, and in your bed, where you ought to 
be.” 

“Shall I go there at once, or pour your coffee first?” 

“A cup of coffee would be a treat; I’m dead tired.” 

The coffee was drank, and the lunch for Andrews 
was appropriated for Genesee. 


200 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


"Have you come back to the Kootenai country for 
good?” she asked, after furnishing him with whatever 
she could find in the pantry without awakening the rest. 

“I don’t know—it may be for bad,” he replied doubt¬ 
fully. "Pve taken the trail north to sound any tribes 
that are hostile, and if troops are needed they are to 
follow me.” 

"Up into this country?” 

"I reckon so. Are you afraid of fighting?” 

She did not answer. A new idea, a sudden remem¬ 
brance, had superseded that of Indian warfare. 

"How long since you left Fort Owens?” she asked. 

"Fifteen days. Why?” 

"A friend of MacDougalFs started in that direction 
about two weeks ago. Davy sent a kind message by 
him; but you must have passed it on the way.” 

"Likely; P ve been in the Flathead country, and that’s 
wide of the trail to Owens. Who was the man?” 

"His name is Stuart.” 

He set the empty cup down, and looked in the fire 
for a moment with a steadiness that made the girl 
doubt if he had either heard or noticed; but after a 
little he spoke. 

"What was that you said?” 

"That the man’s name was Stuart." 

"Young or old?” 

"Younger than you.” 

"And he has gone to Fort Owens?” 

"Started for there, I said.” 

"Oh! then you haven’t much faith in a tenderfoot 
getting through the hostiles or snow-banks?” 

"How do you know he is a tenderfoot?” 

He glanced up; she was looking at him with as much 
of a question in her eyes as her words. 


A VISIT IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


201 


“Well, I reckon I don’t," he ansAvered, picking up 
his hat as if to end the conversation. “I knew a man 
called Stuart once, but I don’t know this one. Now, 
have you any pressing reason for loafing down here 
any longer? If not. I’ll take my blanket and that 
lounge and get some sleep. I’ve been thirty-six hours 
in the saddle.” 

In vain she tried to prevail on him to go upstairs 
and go to bed “right.” 

“This is right enough for me,” he answered, laying 
his hat and gloves on a table and unfastening his spurs. 
“No, I won’t go up to the men’s room. Good-night.” 

“But, Jack—look here—” 

“I can’t—too sleepy to look anywhere, or see if I 
did look; ” and his revolvers and belt were laid beside 
the growing collection on the table. 

“But Hen will scold me for not giving you better 
lodging.” 

“Then he and another man will have a shooting- 
match before breakfast to-morrow. Are you going?” 

He was beginning to deliberately unfasten his neck- 
gear of scarlet and bronze. She hesitated, as if to make 
a final protest, but failed and fled; and as the door 
closed behind her, she heard another half-laughing 
^^KlahowyaP' 

Early in the morning she was down-stairs, to find 
Aunty Luce half wild with terror at the presence of a 
stranger who had taken possession of the sitting-room 
during the night. 

“Cain’t see his face for the blanket, honey,” she 
whispered shrilly, “but he’s powerful big; an’—an’just 
peep through the door at the guns and things—it’s 
wah times right ovah again, shueh as I’m tellen’ yo’, 
chile. ” 


202 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


"Be quiet, Aunty, and get breakfast; it’s a friend of 
ours." 

"Hi-yi! I know all ’bout them kind o’ friends, 
honey; same kind as comes South in wah times, a 
trampen’ into houses o’ quality folks an sleepen’ whah 
they liked, an’ callen’ theyselves friends. He’s a 
moven’ now!—less call the folks!” 

But the attempted yell was silenced by Rachel clap¬ 
ping her hand over the full lips and holding her 
tightly. 

“Don’t be a fool!” she admonished the old lady 
impatiently. "I let the man in last night; it’s all right. 
Go and get him a good breakfast.” 

Aunty Luce eyed the girl as if she thought her a 
conspirator against the safety of the house, and 
despite precautions, managed to slip upstairs to 
Tillie with a much-garbled account of thieves of the 
night, and war-times, and tramps, and Miss Rache. 

Much mystified, the little woman dressed quickly, 
and came down the stairs to find her husband shaking 
hands quite heartily with Genesee. Instantly she for¬ 
got the multitudinous reasons there were for banning 
him from the bosom of one’s family, and found her¬ 
self telling him he was very welcome. 

"I reckon in your country a man would wait to hear 
someone say that before stowing his horse in their 
stables, or himself in their beds,” he observed. 

His manner was rather quiet, but one could see 
that the heartiness of their greeting was a great 
pleasure, and, it may be, a relief. 

"Do you call that a bed?” asked Tillie, with con¬ 
temptuous warmth. "I do think, Mr. Genesee, you 
might have wakened some of us, and given us a chance 
to treat a guest to something better." 


A VISIT IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


203 


“I suppose, then, I am not counted in with the fam¬ 
ily,” observed Rachel, meekly, from the background. 
“I was on hand to do the honors, but wasn’t allowed 
to do them. I even went to the stable to receive the 
late-comer, and was told to skip into the house, and 
given a general understanding that I interfered with 
him making himself comfortable in the hay-mow.” 

‘‘Did she go out there at night, and alone, after we 
were all in bed?” And Tillie’s tone indicated vol¬ 
umes of severity. 

“Yes,” answered Genesee; for Rachel, with a mar¬ 
tyr-like manner, said nothing, and awaited her lect¬ 
ure; ‘‘she thought it was your man Andrews.” 

‘‘Yes, and she would have gone just as quick if it 
had been Indians—or—or—anybody. She keeps me 
nervous half the time with her erratic ways.” 

‘‘I rather think she’s finding fault with me for giv¬ 
ing you that coffee and letting you sleep on the 
lounge,” said Rachel; and through Tillie’s quick dis¬ 
claimer her own shortcomings were forgotten, at least 
for the time. But the little matron’s caution, that 
always lagged wofully behind her impulse, obtruded 
itself on her memory several times before the break¬ 
fast was over; and thinking of the reasons why a man 
of such character should not be received as a friend 
by ladies, especially girls, she was rather glad when 
she heard him say he was to push on into the hills 
soon as possible. 

‘‘I only stopped last night because I had to; Mow- 
itza and I were both used up. I was trying to make 
MacDougall’s, but when I crossed the trail to your 
place, I reckoned we would fasten to it—working 
through the snow was telling on her; but she is all 
right this morning.” 


204 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


Rachel told him of her visit to the old man, and his 
care of the cabin on the Tamahnous ground; of rumors 
picked up from the Kootenai tribe as to the chance 
of trouble with the Blackfeet, and many notes that 
were of interest to this hunter of feeling in the Indian 
question. He commented on her Chinook, of which 
she had gained considerable knowledge in the past 
year, and looked rather pleased when told it had been 
gained from Kalitan. 

“You may see him again if I have to send for troops 
up here, and it looks that way now,” he remarked, much 
to the terror and satisfaction of Aunty Luce, who was a 
house divided against itself in her terror of Indian 
trouble and her desire to prove herself a prophetess. 

Jim was all anticipation. After a circus or a vari¬ 
ety show, nothing had for him the charm that was 
exerted by the prospect of a fight; but his hopes in 
that direction were cooled by the scout’s statement 
that the troops were not coming with the expectation 
of war, but simply to show the northern tribes its 
futility, and that the Government was strengthening 
its guard for protection all along the line. 

“Then yer only ringin’ in a bluff on the hostiles!” 
ventured the sanguinary hopeful disgustedly. “I 
counted on business if the ‘yaller’ turned out,” mean¬ 
ing by the “yaller” the cavalry, upon whose accou¬ 
trements the yellow glints show. 

“Never mind, sonny,” said Genesee; “if we make a 
bluff, it won’t be on an empty hand. But I must take 
the trail again, and make up for time lost in sleep 
here. ” 

“When may we look for you back?" 

It was Hardy who spoke, but Something had taken 
the free-heartiness out of his tones; he looked just 


A VISIT IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


205 


a trifle uncomfortable. Evidently Tillie had been giv¬ 
ing him a hint of second thoughts, and while trying 
to adopt them they fitted his nature too clumsily not 
to be apparent. 

His guest, however, had self-possession enough for 
both. 

“Don’t look for me,” he advised, taking in the 
group with a comprehensive glance; “that is, don’t 
hurt the sight of your eyes in the business; the times 
are uncertain, and I reckon I’m more uncertain than 
the times. I’m obliged to you for the sleep last night, 
and the cover for Mowitza. If I can ever do you as 
good a turn, just sing out.” 

Hardy held out his hand impulsively. “You did 
a heap more for us a year ago, for which we never had 
a chance to make return,” he said in his natural, 
hearty manner. 

“Oh, yes, you have had,” contradicted Rachel’s cool 
tones from the porch; “you have the chance now.” 

Genesee darted one quick glance at her face. Some¬ 
thing in it was evidently a compensation, and blotted 
out the bitterness that had crept into his last speech, 
for with a freer manner he took the proffered hand. 

“That’s all right,” he said easily. “I was right 
glad of the trip myself, so it wasn’t any work; but 
at the present speaking the days are not picnic days, 
and I must ‘git.’ Good-bye, Mrs. Hardy; good-bye, 
boys. ” 

Then he turned in his saddle and looked at Rachel. 

''Klahowya — tillikum," he said, lifting his hat in a 
final farewell to all. 

But in the glance toward her she felt he had said 
"tiiank you” as plainly as he had in the Indian lan¬ 
guage called her “friend.” 


2 o6 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Oh, dear!” said Tillie, turning into the house as 
he rode away. “I wish the man had staid away, or 
else that we had known more about him when we first 
met him. It is very awkward to change one’s manner 
to him, and—and yet it seems the only thing to do.” 

“Certainly,” agreed Rachel, with an altogether 
unnecessary degree of contempt, “it is the only thing 
for you to do.” 

Tillie sat down miserably under this stroke, the 
emphasis denoting very plainly the temper of the 
speaker. 

“Oh, don’t be ugly, Rache,” she beggf^^. “I really 
feel wretched about it. I thought at first all the 
freedom of social laws out here was so nice; but it 
isn’t. It has a terrible side to it, when the greatest 
scamp is of as much account as the finest gentleman, 
and expects to be received on the same footing. He— 
he had no right to come imposing on us at the first;” 
and with this addition to her defense, Tillie tried to 
ensconce herself behind the barricade of injured 
faith, but feeling that her protests were only weaken¬ 
ing her argument. 

“To the best of my recollection, ” said the girl, with 
a good deal of the supercilious in her manner, “he 
neither came near us nor advanced any desire for friend¬ 
ship on his own account. We hunted him up, and 
insisted on talking natural history and singing songs 
with him, or pressing on him many invitations to 
visit you, which he avoided giving any promise to. 
He was treated, not as an equal of the other gentle¬ 
men, but as a superior; and I believe it is the only 
time we ever did him justice.” 

“Yes, he did seem very nice those days; but you 
see it was all false pretense. Think of the life he 


A VISIT IN THE NIGHT-TIME. 


207 


had come from, and that he went back to! It’s no use 
talking, Rachel—there is only a right way and a 
wrong way in this world. He has shown what his 
choice was, and self-respecting people can only keep 
rid of him as much as possible. I don’t like to hurt 
his feelings. It makes it very awkward for us that 
we have received any favors from him.” 

‘‘The obligation rests rather lightly on your shoul¬ 
ders to cause you much fretting,” said the girl bit¬ 
terly; ‘‘and he thought so much of you, too—so much. ’ 

Her voice, that began so calmly, ended a little 
uncertainly, and she walked out of the door. 

And Hardyj'coming in a moment later, found Tillie 
divided between penitence and pettishness, and fight¬ 
ing her way to comfort through tears. 

‘‘I know I’m right. Hen, about the whole question," 
she whimpered, when safely perched on the strong¬ 
hold of his knee, ‘‘and that is what makes it so aggra¬ 
vating. ” 

‘‘To know you’re right?” 

‘‘No; but to have Rachel, who knows she is in the 
wrong, take that high-handed way about the affair, 
and end up by making me feel ashamed. Yes, she 
did. Hen—just that. I felt so ashamed I cried, ^nd 
yet I knew I was right all the time—now what are 
you laughing at?” 


208 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER VI. 

NEIGHBORS OF THE NORTH PARK. 

Reveille! Boots and saddles! Taps! 

About the Hardy ranch the changes were rung on 
all those notes of camp, from early morn till dewy 
eve, by the melodious imitations of Jim. 

Stories of grizzlies and black bear had grown passe; 
even the more rare accounts of wild horses spotted in 
some secluded valley failed to stir his old-time inter¬ 
est. All else had drifted into nothingness to him, for the 
“yaller” had come. 

It had been stationed in the North Park for ten 
days—days of wild commotion at the ranch, for North 
Park was only two miles away, following the little 
branch of Missoula Creek that flowed north to the Koo¬ 
tenai River. And the errands necessary to and fro 
between the two points of residence were multitudi¬ 
nous, for Jim could never remember but one thing at a 
time of late; and the retraced steps he took would 
have tired out anyone less curious. He was disap¬ 
pointed, at first, to find that only one company had 
been sent up to guard the gate into the Kootenai coun¬ 
try. It did not look as if they feared any outbreak 
or active service, and if it had not been in the most 
miserable of seasons, they would have had much the 
appearance of a pleasure party; but the rains were 
in the valleys and the snows on the hills, and camp 
life under those circumstances is a breeder of rayless 
monotony. 


NEIGHBORS OF THE NORTH PARK. 


2og 


“And your ranch up here has proved the oasis in 
our desert,” declared Fred Dreyer in a burst of grati¬ 
tude to Rachel, just as if the locating of the sheep 
farm in that particular part of the world was due to 
the sagacity and far-sightedness of Miss Hardy; “and 
when Mr. Stuart told us at the Fort that we would 
have so charming a neighbor, I wanted to throw up 
my plate and give three cheers. We were at mess— 
at dinner, I mean. But I restrained my enthusiasm, 
because my leave to come along was only provisional 
at that time, and depended on my good behavior; 
but once here, my first impulse was to give you a big 
hug instead of the conventional hand-shake, for there 
are no girls at the Fort, and I was hungry for the sight 
of one.” 

It was not, as one may suppose, one of the uniformed 
warriors of the camp who expressed himself with this 
enthusiasm, though several looked as if they would 
like to, but it was the most petite little creature in 
petticoats—to her own disgust; and to mitigate the 
femininity of them as much as possible, they were of 
regular army blue, their only trimming belt and bands 
of the “yaller, ” an adornment Jim openly envied her, 
and considered as senseless when wasted on a girl. 
She was Miss Frederick Dreyer, the daughter of 
Major Dreyer, of the Fort, and the sweetheart of most 
of the men in it, from the veterans down. 

“They all think they own me,” she confided plain¬ 
tively to Rachel, “just because Pm little. It’s only 
a year and a half since they quit calling me ‘ Baby 
Fred’—think of that! When you’re owned by a 
whole regiment, it’s so hard to gather up any dignity, 
or keep it if you do get hold of it; don’t you think 
so?” 


210 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


"I have had no experience in that line,” answered 
Rachel. “You see I have never been owned by a regi¬ 
ment, nor by anybody else.” 

“How delightfully independent you are!” and Miss 
Fred, encircled by comrades, seemed really to envy the 
other her loneness in the world. “No orderly forever 
on duty at your heels, and—” 

"And no lieutenant,” put in Rachel; and then they 
both laughed, and the younger told the elder she was 
ridiculous, for the lieutenants were not a bit worse 
than the rest. 

"Worse? Not at all. I could even imagine circum¬ 
stances under which they might be preferable, and 
Fm not gifted with much imagination, either.” 

“I know someone who thinks you are, and an envi¬ 
able imagination at that,” laughed Miss Fred. 

Rachel opened her eyes a little in questioning, but 
did not speak. 

“Why, it was Mr. Stuart. He talked about you a 
good deal at the Fort. You know there are several 
officers have their wives with them, and he was ask¬ 
ing them lots of questions about typical Western girls, 
but they didn’t seem to know any, for at a military 
fort girls don’t remain girls long—unless they’re half 
boys, like me. Someone always snaps them up and 
tacks ‘Mrs.’ to their name, and that settles them.” 

“Poor girls!” 

“Oh, bless you! they would say that same thing of 
anyone who visited a fort and did not become mar¬ 
ried, or engaged—well, I should think so!” 

“Do you come in for your share of commiseration?” 
asked Tillie, who was listening with interest to this 
gossip of military life that seemed strange for a 
woman to share. 


NEIGHBORS OF THE NORTH PARK. 


2 II 


“Me? Not a bit of it. I am not worth their notice 
in that respect. They haven’t begun to treat me as 
if I was grown up, yet; that’s the disadvantage of 
being little—you never can impress people with a 
belief in your own importance. Yesterday, Lieutenant 
Murray had the impudence to tell me that, when all 
was said and done, I was only a ‘camp follower’ hang¬ 
ing onto the coat-tails of the army, and likely to be 
mustered out of the regiment at the discretion of the 
superior officers—my lords and masters! What do 
you think of that?” 

“That 3^ou must have made things rather warm for 
the poor Lieutenant to provoke a speech so unnatural 
to his usual courtesy,” answered Rachel. “Whatever 
Mr. Stuart may credit me with, I have not imagina¬ 
tion enough to conceive that speech being unprovoked.” 

“Well, if you’re going to champion his High- 
Mightiness, I’ll tell you nothing more. And Mr. Stuart 
said you were so sympathetic, too.” 

"I should say it was the Stuart who was imagina¬ 
tive,” laughed Rachel; “ask Tillie.” 

“But he did say that—seriously,” insisted Miss 
Fred, turning to Tillie. “When Mrs. Captain Sneath 
was curious about you, he said you had a delicate 
imagination that would find beauty in things that to 
many natures would be commonplace, and topped off a 
long list of virtues by saying you were the most loyal 
of friends.” 

Tillie sat looking at Rachel in astonishment. 

“What have you been doing with the man?” she 
asked ; “giving him some potion brewed by an Indian 
witch? A sure ‘hoodoo’ it must be, to warp a man’s 
judgment like that! And you were not so very nice 
to him, either.” 


212 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Wasn’t she?” asked Fred in amazement. “Well I 
think it would be bard to be anything else to so 
charming a man, and so clever a one. Do you know 
he is very rich?” 

“No,” answered Tillie. “We only knew that he 
was a physician out here for a change of air. He is 
splendid company.” 

‘‘Well, I should think so! We were all in love 
with him at the Fort. Mrs. Sneath says he has given 
up medicine, and—I believe it’s something of a secret, 
but it don’t matter in this far-out corner of the world 
—he is something of a writer—a writer of fiction. 
The way I heard it was through the Captain, who used 
to know him at college. He says that the Stuart, as 
you call him, is most likely out here studying up mate¬ 
rial for some work—a novel, maybe. Wouldn’t you 
love to read it?” 

“I can’t say unless I have some idea of the class 
of work. What has he done?” 

It was Rachel who was the questioner, and who, in 
the light of a reasonable cause for his presence in 
the Kootenai, felt herself all in a moment a bit of a 
fool for some of her old fancies. 

‘‘I don’t know — wish I did,” said Miss Fred 
promptly. “He writes under an assumed name. Mrs. 
Sneath wouldn’t tell me, for fear I’d bother him 
about it, I suppose; but if he comes up here to camp. 
I’ll find out before he leaves—see if I don’t.” 

‘‘He is not likely to pay a visit up here in this 
season of the year,” remarked Rachel. ‘‘I thought 
he was going East from Owens. ” 

‘‘He did talk like that when he first went down 
there, and that’s what made Captain Sneath decide 
he was studying up the country; for all at once he 


NEIGHBORS OF THE NORTH PARK. 


213 


said he might stay out West all winter, and seemed 
to take quite an interest in the Indian question—made 
friends with all the scouts down there, and talked 
probabilities with even the few ‘good’ Indians about 
the place. He told me he might see me again, if I 
was coming up with the company. So he is studying 
up something out here—sure.” 

Nobody answering this speculation, she was silent 
a bit, looking at Rachel, who had picked up a book 
off the table; and then she began to laugh. 

‘‘Well—” and Rachel glanced over at her, noting 
that she looked both amused and hesitating—‘‘well, 
what is it?” 

‘‘I was only thinking how—how funny it would be 
id you happened to be that ‘something.’” 

But Rachel’s answering laugh, as she pushed the 
book away, signified that it was the least probable of 
all fancies. 

"It is you who should write romances, instead of 
the Stuart,” she replied—"you and Til lie here. She 
has a good deal of the same material in her—that of 
a match-maker. She has spied out life-partners for 
me in all sorts of characters out here, from Davy 
MacDougall down to Jim. They are wonderfully anx¬ 
ious to get rid of me.” 

Just outside the gate, the blue of military garb 
showed the coming of usual afternoon callers from 
Camp Kootenai, among them the Major, commander 
of the company, the only occasional rebel being his 
petite non-commissioned officer in petticoats. A tall 
young fellow in lieutenant’s uniform halted on his 
way out, to exchange greeting; and if the daughter 
complained of the young soldier’s lack of deference, 
the father had no reason to, for in his eyes, as he 


214 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


saluted, shone something nearer affection than mere 
duty—a feeling that he shared with every man in the 
command, for Major Dreyer was a universal favor¬ 
ite. 

“No later news of that scout, Genesee?” asked the 
younger as they separated. 

“No; but we can expect him soon now, for that red 
shadow of his, Kalitan, just loped into camp. And, by 
the way,” added the older officer, “he mentioned that 
he passed our friend Stuart back at the settlement. 
He is coming up this way again." 

“Tell Miss Fred that, Majcrr. When I saw her, an 
hour ago, she needed something to put her in a good 
humor." 

“Ah! Good-evening, Lieutenant.” 

“Good-evening, Major.” 

The minute the subordinate’s back was turned. 
Miss Fred, with a running jump that would have done 
Jim credit, landed almost on the Major’s shoulder. 
He gave her a ferocious hug, and dropped her plump 
on her feet with a stern— 

“Attention 1” 

Quick as light the little hand was raised in salute, 
and the little figure gathered together its scattered 
dignity to make a soldierly appearance. 

“Private Dreyer, I have been met on the outposts 
with a message telling me of a disorganized temper 
that should belong to your command. What have 
you to say for yourself?” 

Instantly the role of the soldier was dropped, and 
that of the girl with a temper took its place. 

“Oh, he told you, did he?” she asked, with a 
wrathful glance at the figure retreating toward camp. 
“Well, just wait until I go riding with him again! 


NEIGHBORS OF THE NORTH PARK. 


215 


He’s called me a camp follower, and—and everything 
else that was uncivil.” 

‘‘Ah! And what did you do?” 

‘‘I? Why nothing, of course.” 

‘‘Nothing? ” 

‘‘Well, I did threaten to go over and turn them out of 
the cabin that was built for me, but— 

‘‘But that was a mere trifle in this tropical climate. 
I’ve no doubt it would do them good to sleep under 
the stars instead of a roof; and then it would give 
you an opportunity to do some wholesale nursing, if 
they caught colds all around.” 

‘‘Just as if I would 1 ” 

‘‘Just as if you would not! And Lieutenant Murray 
would come in for the worst medicine and the big¬ 
gest doses.” 

‘‘If his constitution is equal to his impudence, it 
would take stupendous doses to have any effect. I 
wish he was sent back to the Fort.” 

‘‘Won’t sending him up among the Indians do just 
as well ?” 

‘‘Y-yes. Are you going to, papa?" 

‘‘Ah! now you grow inquisitive.” 

‘‘1 do think,” said Tillie, ‘‘you all plague her a great 
deal. ” 

‘‘They just treat me as if I was a joke instead of a 
girl,” complained Fred. ‘‘They began it before I was 
born by giving me a boy’s name, and it’s been kept up 
ever since. ” 

‘‘Never mind. Baby,” he said soothingly; ‘‘if I had 
not made a boy of you I could not have had you with 
me, so the cause was vital.” 

They both laughed, but it was easy to see that the 
cause was vital to them, and their companionship 


2 i6 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


very much of a necessity. Its interruptions since her 
babyhood had been few and short, and her education, 
picked up on the frontier, had taught her that in the 
world there was just one place for her—in the saddle, 
and beside her father, just as her mother had rid¬ 
den beside him before Fred was born. 


'a woman who was lost-LONG AGO." 


217 


CHAPTER VII. 

“a woman WHO WAS LOST—LONG AGO! ” 

The next morning, bright and early, a call was made 
at the ranch byKalitan; and Miss Fred, used as she 
was to the red men, grew rather enthusiastic over 
this haughty, graceful specimen, who gave her one 
glance at the door and walked past her into the house— 
as she afterward described it, "just as if she had been 
one of the wooden door-posts.” 

"Rashell Hardy?” was all he said; and without 
more ado Miss Fred betook herself up the stairs to 
do his implied bidding and hunt Miss Hardy. 

‘T rather think it’s the grand mogul of all the 
Kootenais,” she said, in announcing him. "No, he 
didn^t give any card; but his personality is too 
striking to be mistaken, if one has ever seen him or 
heard him speak. He looked right over my head, 
and made me feel as if I was about two feet 
high.” 

“Young Indian?” 

“Yes, but he looks like a young faun. That one 
never came from a scrub race.” 

"Pll ask him to stay to dinner,” laughed Rachel; 
“if anything will cure one of a tendency to idealize 
an Indian, it is to see him satisfying the inner man. 
Come down and talk to him. It is Kalitan. ” 

"Oh, it is Kalitan, is it? And pray what is that— 
a chief rich in lineage and blooded stock? His 
assurance speaks of wealth and power, I should say. 


2 i8 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


and his manner shows one a Fenimore Cooper spirit 
come to life. How am I as a guesser?” 

“One of the worst in the world. Kalitan is really 
a handsome humbug in some ways. That superb 
manner of his is the only stock in trade he possesses 
beyond his swift feet; but the idea of importance 
he manages to convey speaks wonders for his strength 
of will. Come along!” 

"Klahowya, Rashell Hardy?” he said; and stepping 
solemnly forward, shook her hand in a grave, cere¬ 
monious fashion. Rachel told him the other lady 
was her friend, by way of introduction, and he widened 
his mouth ever so little in a smile, but that was the 
only sign of acknowledgment he gave; and when 
Rachel spoke to him in English he would not answer, 
but sat stolidly looking in the fire until she saw what 
was wrong and addressed him in Chinook. “Rashell 
Hardy need not so soon forget,” he reminded her 
briefly; and then went on with his speech to her of 
where he had been; the wonders he had done in the 
way of a runner, and all else of self-glorification that 
had occurred in the past months. Many times the 
name of his chief was uttered in a way that impressed 
on a listener the idea that among the troops along the 
frontier there were two men who were really worthy 
of praise—a scout and a runner. “Kalitan tired now 
—pretty much,” he wound up, as a finale; “come up 
Kootenai country to rest, may be, while spring comes. 
Genesee he rest, too, may be—may be not. ” 

“Where, Kalitan?” 

“S’pose camp—s’pose may be Tamahnous cabin; not 
here yet.” 

“Coming back?” 

Kalitan nodded, and arose. 


"a woman who was lost-LONG AGO.” 


219 


"Come see you, may be, sometime, often," he said, as 
if conferring a special lionor by promised visits; and 
then be stalked out as he had stalked in, only checking 
his gait at sight of Aunty Luce coming in from 
the kitchen with a dish of cold meat. She nearly 
dropped it in her fright, and closed her eyes in 
silent prayer and terror; and when she opened them 
the enemy had left the porch. 

"Good Lawd, Miss Rache! " she gasped. "He’s 
skeered me before bad enough, but this the fust time 
he evah stopped stock an’ glare at me! I’s gwine 
to complain to the milantary—I is, shuah." 

"You are a great old goose! ” said Rachel brusquely. 
‘‘He wasn’t looking at you, but at that cold meat.” 

There seemed a general gathering of the clans 
along the Kootenai valley that winter. With the com¬ 
ing north of Genesee had followed the troops, then 
Kalitan, then their mercurial friend of the autumn— 
the Stuart; and down from Scot’s Mountain came 
Davy MacDougall, one fair day, to join the circle that 
was a sort of reunion. And among the troops were 
found many good fellows who were so glad of an even¬ 
ing spent at the ranch that never a night went by 
without a party gathered there. 

"The heft o’ them does everything but sleep here,” 
complained Aunty Luce; ‘‘an’ all the other ones look 
jealous ’cause Mr. Stuart does that.” 

For Hardy and his wife had insisted on his stop¬ 
ping with them, as before, though much of his time 
was put in at the camp. There was something about 
him that made him a companion much desired by 
men; Rachel had more opportunity to observe this 
now than when their circle was so much smaller. That 
gay good-humor, with its touches of serious feeling, 


220 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


and the delicate sympathy that was always alive to 
earnest emotion-—she found that those traits were keys 
to the hearts of men as well as women; and a smile 
here, a kind word there, or a clasp of the hand, were 
the only arts needed to insure him the unsought 
friendship of almost every man in the company. 

"It’s the gift that goes wi’the name,” said MacDou- 
gall one day when someone spoke of the natural 
charm of the man’s manner. "It’s just that—no less. 
No, o’ course he does na strive for it; it’s but a bit 
o’ nature. A blessin’, say you. Miss? Well, may- 
haps; but to the old stock it proved but a curse." 

"It seems a rather fair life to connect the idea of a 
curse with,” remarked the Major; "but I rather think 
he has seen trouble, too. Captain Sneath said some¬ 
thing to that effect, I believe—some sudden death of 
wife and children in an epidemic down in Mexico," 

"Married! That settles the romance," said Fred; 
"but he is interesting, anyway, and I am going immedi¬ 
ately to find out what he has written and save up my 
money to buy copies.” 

"I may save you that expense in one instance,” and 
Rachel handed her the book Stuart had sent her. 
Tillie looked at her in astonishment, and Fred seized 
it eagerly. 

"Oh, but you are sly! ” she said, with an accusing 
pout; "you’ve heard me puzzling about his work for 
days and never gave me a hint.” 

"I only guessed it was his, he never told me; but 
this morning I charged him with it, and he did not deny. 
I do not think there is any secret about it, only down 
at the Fort there were several ladies, I believe, and 
—arid some of them curious—” 

"You’re right,” laughed the Major; "they would 


"a woman who was lost-LONG AGO." 


221 


have hounded him to death. Camp life is monotonous 
to most women, and a novelist, especially a young, 
handsome fellow, would have been a bonanza to them. 
As it was, they tried to spoil him; and look here!” 
he said suddenly, ‘‘see that you say nothing of his mar¬ 
riage to him. Babe. As he does not mention it himself, it 
may be that the trouble, or—well, just remember not 
to broach the subject.” 

‘‘Just as if I would!” said his daughter after he had 
left. ‘‘Papa never realizes that I have at all neared 
the age of discretion. But doesn’t it seem strange to 
think of Mr. Stuart being married? He don’t look 
a bit like it.” 

‘‘Does that state of existence impress itself so 
indelibly on one’s physical self?” laughed Rachel. 

‘‘It does—mostly,” affirmed Fred. ‘‘They get set¬ 
tled down and prosy, or else—well, dissipated.” 

‘‘Good gracious! Is that the effect we are supposed 
to have on the character of our lords and masters?” 
asked Mrs. Hardy unbelievingly. 

‘‘Fred’s experience is confined to barrack life and its 
attendant evils. I don’t think she makes allowance for 
the semi-artistic temper of the Stuart. He strikes me 
as having just enough of it to keep his heart always 
young, and his affections too—on tap, as it were.” 

‘‘What queer ideas you have about that man! ” said 
Fred suddenly. ‘‘Don’t you like him?” 

'T would not dare say no with so many opposing 
me.” 

‘‘Oh, you don’t know Rachel. She is always attrib¬ 
uting the highest of virtues or the worst of vices to 
the most unexpected people,” said Tillie. ‘‘I don’t 
believe she has any feeling in the question at all, 
except to get on the opposite side of the question 


222 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


from everyone else. If she would own up, I’ll wager 
she likes him as well as the rest of us.” 

‘‘Do you, Rachel? ” But her only answer was a laugh. 
‘If you do, I can’t see why you disparage him.” 

‘‘I did not.” 

‘‘Well, you said his affections were always on 
tap. ” 

‘‘That was because I envy him the exhaustless youth 
such a temperament gives one. Such people defy 
time and circumstances in a way we prosaic folks 
can never do. It is a gift given to an artist, to sup¬ 
ply the lack of practical ingredients that are the 
prime ones to the rest of creation.” 

‘‘How you talk! Why, Mr, Stuart is not an artist!” 

‘‘Isn’t he? There are people who are artists though 
they never draw a line or mix a color; but don’t 5^011 
think we are devoting a great deal of time to this 
pill-peddler of literary leanings?” 

‘‘You are prejudiced,” decided Fred. ‘‘Leanings 
indeed! He has done more than lean in that direc¬ 
tion—witness that book. 

‘‘I like to hear him tell a story, if he is in the 
humor,” remarked Til lie, with a memor}^ of the cozy 
autumn evenings. ‘‘We used to enjoy that so much 
before we ever guessed he was a stor3^-teller by pro¬ 
fession. ” 

‘‘Well, you must have had a nice sort of a time up 
here,” concluded Fred; “a sort of Tom Moore epi¬ 
sode. He would do all right for the poet-prince—or 
was it a king? But you—well, Rachel, 3^011 are not 
just one’s idea of a Lalla. ” 

‘‘You slangy little mortal ! Go and read 3^ourbook.” 

Which she did obediently and thoroughly, to the au¬ 
thor’s discomfiture, as he was besieged with ques- 


“a woman who was lost-LONG AGO.” 


223 


tions that taxed his memory and ingenuity pretty 
thoroughly at times. 

But he found himself on a much better footing with 
Rachel than during his first visit. It may have been 
that her old fancy regarding his mission up there was 
disappearing; the fancy itself had always been a rather 
intangible affair—a fabrication wrought by the shut¬ 
tle of a woman’s instinct. Or, having warned Genesee 
—she had felt it was a warning—there might have fallen 
from her own shoulders some of the responsibility she 
had so gratuitously assumed. Whatever it was, she 
was meeting him on freer ground, and found the asso¬ 
ciation one of pleasure. 

‘‘I think Miss Fred or your enlarged social circle 
has had a most excellent influence on your cemper,” 
he said to her one day after a ride from camp together, 
and a long, pleasant chat. “You are now more like 
the girl I used to think you might be—the girl you 
debarred me from knowing.” 

“But think what amount of time you had for work 
in those days that are forfeited now to dancing attend¬ 
ance on we women folk! ” 

“I do not dance. ” 

“Well, you ride, and you walk, and you sing, and 
tell stories, and manage at least to waste lots of time 
when you should be working.” 

‘‘You have a great deal of impatience with anyone 
who is not a worker, haven’t you?” 

‘‘Yes,” she said, looking up at him. ‘‘I grow very 
impatient myself often from the same cause.” 

‘‘You always seem to me to be very busy,” he 
answered half-vexedly; ‘‘too busy. You take on your¬ 
self responsibilities in all directions that do not belong 
to you; and you have such a way of doing as you 


224 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


please that no one about the place seems to realize 
how much of a general manager you are here, or how 
likely you are to overburden yourself.” 

“Nonsense! ” 

She spoke brusquely, but could not but feel the 
kindness in the penetration that had given her appreci¬ 
ation where the others, through habit, had grown to take . 
her accomplishments as a matter of course. In the 
beginning they had taken them as a joke. 

“Pardon me,” he said finally. “I do not mean to 
be rude, but do you mind telling me if work is a 
necessity to you?” 

“Certainly not. I have none of that sort of pride to 
contend with, I hope, and I have a little money—not 
much, bat enough to live on; so, you see, I am pro¬ 
vided for in a way.” 

“Then why do you always seem to be skirmishing 
around for work?” he asked, in a sort of impatience. 
“Women should be home-makers, not—” 

“Not prospectors or adventurers,” she finished up 
amiably. “But as I have excellent health, average 
strength and understanding, I feel they should be put 
to use in some direction. I have not found the direc¬ 
tion yet, and am a prospector meanwhile; but a con¬ 
tented, empty life is a contemptible thing to me. I 
think there is some work intended for us all in the 
world; and,” she added, with one of those quick 
changes that kept folks from taking Racheljs most 
serious meanings seriously—“and I think it’s playing 
it pretty low down on Providence to bluff him on an 
empty hand." 

He laughed. “Do you expect, then, to live your life 
out here helping to manage other people’s ranches and 
accumulating that sort of Western logic in extenuation? ” 


“a woman who was lost-LONG AGO." 225 

She did not answer for a little; then she said: 

“I might do worse." 

She said it so deliberately that he could not but 
feel some special thing was meant, and asked quickly: 

"What?” 

"Well, I might be given talents of benefit to peo¬ 
ple, and fritter them away for the people’s pastime. 
The people would never know they had lost anything, 
or come so near a great gain; but I, the cheat, would 
know it. After the lights were turned out and the 
curtain down on the farce, I would realize that it was 
too late to begin anew, but that the same lights and 
the same theatre would have served as well for the 
truths of Christ as the pranks of Pantaloon—the 
choice lay only in the will of the worker.” 

Her eyes were turned away from him, as if she was 
seeking for metaphors in the white stretch of the 
snow-fall. He reached over and laid his hand on 
hers. 

"Rachel! ” 

It was the only time he had called her that, and the 
caress of the name gave voice to the touch of his fin¬ 
gers. 

"Rachel! What is it you are talking about? Look 
around here ! I want to see you! Do you mean that 
you think of—of me like that—tell me?” 

If Miss Fred could have seen them at that moment 
it would have done her heart good, for they really 
looked rather lover-like; each was unconscious of it, 
though their faces did not lack feeling. She drew her 
hand slowly away, and said, in that halting yet per¬ 
sistent way in which she spoke when very earnest yet 
not very sure of herself: 

“You think me egotistical, I suppose, to criticise 


226 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


work that is beyond my own capabilities, but—it was 
you I meant. ” 

“Well?” 

His fingers closed over the arm o£ the chair instead 
of her hand. All his face was alight with feeling. 
Perhaps it was as well that her stubbornness kept her 
eyes from his; to most women they would not have 
been an aid to cool judgment. 

“Well, there isn’t anything more to say, is there?" 
she asked, smiling a little out at the snow. “It was 
the book that did it—made me feel like that about 
you; that your work is—well, surface work—skimmed 
over for pastime. But here and there are touches 
that show how much deeper and stronger the work you 
might produce if you were not either lazy or care¬ 
less." 

“You give one heroic treatment, and can be merci¬ 
less. The story was written some time ago, and writ¬ 
ten under circumstances that—well, you see I do not 
sign my name to it, so I can’t be very proud of it." 

“Ah! that is it? Your judgment, I believe, is too 
good to be satisfied with it; I wouldn’t waste breath 
speaking, if I was not sure of that. But you have 
the right to do work you can be proud of; and that is 
what you must do." 

Rachel’s way was such a decided way, that people 
generally accepted her “musts" as a matter of course. 
Stuart did the same, though evidently unused to the 
term; and her cool practicalities that were so surely 
noting his work, not himself, had the effect of check¬ 
ing that first impulse of his to touch her—to make 
her look at him. He felt more than ever that the girl 
was strange and changeable—not only in herself, but 
in her influence. He arose and walked across the 


A WOMAN WHO WAS LOST-LONG AGO. 


227 


floor a couple of times, but came back and stood 
beside her. 

“You think I am not ambitious enough; and you are 
right, I suppose. I have never yet made up my mind 
whether it was worth my while to write, or whether it 
might not be more wise to spare the public." 

“But you have the desire—you must feel confidence 
at times. ” 

“How do you know or imagine so much of what I 
feel?" 

“I read it in that book," and she nodded toward 
the table. “In it you seem so often just on the point 
of saying or doing, through the people, things that 
would lift that piece of work into a strong moral 
lesson; but just when you reach that point you drop 
it undeveloped. ” 

“You have read and measured it, haven’t you?" and 
he sat down again beside her. "I never thought of— 
of what you mention in it. A high moral lesson,” he 
repeated; “but to preach those a man should feel 
himself fit; I am not." 

“I don’t believe you!" 

“What do you know about it?” he demanded so 
sharply that she smiled; it was so unlike him. But 
the sharpness was evidently not irritation, for his face 
had in it more of sadness than any other feeling; she 
saw it, and did not speak. 

After a little he turned to her with that rare impet¬ 
uosity that was so expressive. 

“You are very helpful to me in what you have said; 
I think you are that to everyone—it seems so. Per¬ 
haps you are without work of your own in the world, 
that you may have thought for others who need help; 
that is the highest of duties, and it needs 


228 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


strong, good hearts. But do you understand that 
it is as hard sometimes to be thought too highly of 
as to be accused wrongfully? It makes one fee] 
such a cheat—such a cursed liar!” 

“I rather think we are all cheats, more or less, in 
that respect, ” she answered. “I am quite sure the inner 
workings of my most sacred thought could not be 
advertised without causing my exile from the bosom 
of my family; yet I refuse to think myself more 
wicked than the rest of humanity.” 

‘‘Don’t jest!” 

“I am really not jesting,” she answered. “And I 
believe you are over-sensitive as to your own short¬ 
comings, whatever they happen to be. Because I have 
faith in your ability to do strong work, don’t think I 
am going to skirmish around for a pedestal, or think 
I’ve found a piece of perfection in human nature, 
because they’re not to be found, my friend.” 

“How old are you?” he asked her suddenl}^. 

She laughed, feeling so clearly the tenor of his 
thought. 

“Twenty-two by my birthdays, but old enough to 
know that the strongest workers in the world have not 
been always most immaculate. What difference the 
sort of person one has been, or the life they have 
lived, if they come out of it with knowledge and the 
wish to use it well? You have a certain power that 
is yours, to use for good or bad, and from a fancy that 
you should not teach or preach, you let it go to 
waste. Don’t magnify peccadillos!” 

“You seem to take for granted the fact that all my 
acts have been trifling—that only the promises are 
worthy,” he said impatiently. 

“I do believe,” she answered, smiling brightly, “that 


'a woman who was lost-LONG AGO.” 


229 


you would rather I thought you an altogether wicked 
person than an average trifler. But I will not—I do 
not believe it possible for you deliberately to do any 
wicked thing; you have too tender a heart, and—” 

"You don’t know anything about it!” he repeated 
vehemently. "What difference whether an act is delib¬ 
erate or careless, so long as the effect is evil? I tell 
you the great part of the suffering in the world is 
caused not by wicked intents and hard hearts, but by 
the careless desire to shirk unpleasant facts, and the 
soft-heartedness that will assuage momentary pain at 
the price of making a life-long cripple, either mentally, 
morally, or physically. Nine times out of ten the man 
whom we call soft-hearted is only a moral coward. 
Ah, don’t help me to think of that; I think of it 
enough—enough!” 

He brought his clenched hand down on the arm of 
the chair with an emphasis that was heightened by the 
knitted brow and compressed lips. He did not look 
at her. The latter part of the rapid speech seemed 
more to himself than to her. It at least admitted of 
no answer; the manner as much as the words kept her 
silent. 

"Come! come!” he added, after a little, as if to 
arouse himself as well as her. "You began by giving 
me some good words of advice and suggestion; I must 
not repay you by dropping into the blues. For a long 
time I’ve been a piece of drift-wood, with nothing to 
anchor ambition to; but a change is coming, I 
think, and—and if it brings me fair weather, I may 
have something then to work for; then I may be worth 
your belief in me—I am not now. My intentions to be 
so are all right, but they are not always to be trusted. 
I said, before, that you had the faculty of making 


230 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


people speak the truth to you, if they spoke at all, 
and I rather think I am proving my words.” 

He arose and stood looking down at her. Since he 
had found so many words, she had seemed to lose hers; 
anyway, she was silent. 

‘‘It can’t be very pleasant for you,” he said at last, 
‘‘to be bored by the affairs of every renegade whom 
you are kind to, because of some fancied good you 
may see in him; but you are turning out just the sort 
of woman I used to fancy you might be—and—I am 
grateful to you.” 

‘‘That’s all right,” she answered in the old brusque 
way. To tell the truth, a part of his speech was scarcely 
heard. Something in the whole affair—the confidence 
and personal interest, and all—had taken her memory 
back to the days of that cultns corrie, when another 
man had shared with her scenes somewhat similar to 
this. Was there a sort of fate that had set her apart 
for this sort of thing? She smiled a little grimly at 
the fancy, and scarcely heard him. He saw the ghost 
of the smile, and it made him check himself in some¬ 
thing he was about to say, and walk toward the door. 

She neither spoke nor moved; her face was still 
toward the window. And turning to look at her, his 
indecision* disappeared, and in three steps he w^s 
beside her. 

‘‘Rachel, I want to speak to you of something else,” 
he said rapidly, almost eagerly, as if anxious to have 
it said and done with; ‘‘I—I want to tell you what 
that anchor is I’ve been looking for, and without 
which I never will be able to do the higher class of 
work, and—and—" 

"Yes? ” 

He had stopped, making a rather awkward pause 


A WOMAN WHO WAS LOST—LONG AGO. 


231 


after his eager beginning. And, with the one encour¬ 
aging word, she looked up at him and waited. 

“It is a woman.” 

“Not an unusual anchor for mankind; ” she remarked 
with a little laugh. 

But there was no answering smile in his eyes; 
they were very serious. 

“I never will be much good to myself, or the rest of 
the world, until I find her again,” he said, “though no 
one’s words are likely to help me more than yours. 
You would make one ambitious if he dared be, and—” 

“Never mind about that,” she said kindly. “I am 
glad if it has happened so. And this girl—it is some¬ 
one you—love? ” 

“I can’t talk to anyone of her—yet,” he answered, 
avoiding her eyes; “only I wanted you to understand 
—it is at least a little step toward that level where 
you fancy I may belong. Don’t speak of it again; I 
can hardly say what impelled me to tell you now. Yes, 
it is a woman I cared for, and who was—lost—whom 
I lost—long ago.” 

And a moment later she was alone, and tould hear his 
step in the outer room, then on the porch. Fred called 
after him, but he made no halt—did not even answer, 
much to the surprise of that young lady and Miss 
Margaret. 

And the other girl sat watching him until he disap¬ 
peared in the stables, and a little later saw him emerge 
and ride at no slow gait out over the trail toward camp. 

“It only needed that finale,” she soliloquized, “to 
complete the picture. Woman! woman! What a dis¬ 
turbing element you are in the universe—man’s uni¬ 
verse ! ” 

After this bit of trite philosophy, the smile devel- 


232 


TOLD IN THE HILLS, 



oped into a noiseless laugh that had something of 
irony in it, 

“I rather think Talapa’s entrance was more dra¬ 
matic,” was one of the reflections that kept her com¬ 
pany; “anywa}^, she was more picturesque, if less ele¬ 
gant, than Mrs. Stuart is likely to be. Mrs. Stuart! 
By the way, I wonder if it is Mrs. Stuart? Yes, I sup¬ 
pose so—yet, ‘a woman whom I cared for, and who 
was lost—long ago!’—Lost? lost?” 



233 


f 


“i’ll kill him this time. 


CHAPTER VIIL 
“i’ll kill him this time!” 

Rumors were beginning to drift into camp of hostile 
intents of the Blackfeet; and a general feeling of 
uneasiness became apparent as no word came from the 
chief of their scouts, who had not shown up since lo¬ 
cating the troops. 

The Major’s interest was decidedly alive in regard 
to him, since not a messenger entered camp from any 
direction who was not questioned on the subject. But 
from none of them came any word of Genesee. 

Other scouts were there—good men, too, and in the 
southern country of much value; but the Kootenai 
corner of the State was almost an unknown region to 
them. They were all right to work under orders; but 
in those hills, where everything was in favor of the 
native, a man was needed who knew every gully and 
every point of vantage, as well as the probable hostile. 

And while Major Dreyer fretted and fumed over the 
absentee, there was more than one of the men in camp 
to remember that their chief scout was said to be a 
squaw man; and as most of them shared his own 
expressed idea of that class, conjectures were set afloat 
as to the probability of his not coming back at all, 
or if it came to a question of fight with the northern 
Indians, whether he might not be found on the other 
side. 

‘‘You can’t bet any money on a squaw man,” was 


234 


TOLD IN 'I HE HILLS. 


the decision of one of the scouts from over in Idaho— 
one who did not happen to be a squaw man himself, 
because the wife of his nearest neighbor at home ob¬ 
jected. “No, gentlemen, they’re a risky lot. This one is 
a good man; I allow that—a d—d good man, I may 
say, and a fighter from away back; but the thing we 
got to consider is that up this way he’s with his own peo¬ 
ple, as you may say, having taken a squaw wife and been 
adopted into the tribe; an’ I tell you, sirs, it’s jest as 
reasonable that he will go with them as again them— 
I’m a tell in’ you! ” 

Little of these rumors were heard at the ranch. It was 
an understood thing among the men that the young la¬ 
dies at Hardy’swere to hear nothing of camp affairs that 
was likely to beget alarm; but Stuart heard them, as 
did the rest of the men; and like them, he tried to ques¬ 
tion the only one in camp who shared suspicion—Kali- 
tan. But Kalitan was unapproachable in English, and 
even in Chinook would condescend no information. He 
doubtless had none to give, but the impression of sup¬ 
pressed knowledge that he managed to convey made 
him an object of close attention, and any attempt to 
leave camp would have been hailed as proof positive of 
many intangible suspicions. But he made no such at¬ 
tempt. On the contrary, after his arrival there from the 
Gros Ventres, he seemed blissfully content to live all 
winter on Government rations and do nothing. But he 
was not blind by any means, and understanding English, 
though he would not speak it, the chances were that 
he knew more of the thought of the camp than it 
guessed of his; and his stubborn resentment showed 
itself when three Kootenai braves slouched into camp 
one day, and Kalitan was not allowed to speak to 
them save in the presence of an interpreter, and when 


“i’ll kill him this time." 235 

one offered in the person of a white scout, Kalitan 
looked at him with unutterable disdain, and turning 
his back, said not a word. 

The Major was not at camp. He had just left to 
pay his daily visit to Hardy’s; for, despite all persua¬ 
sions, he refused to live anywhere but with his men, 
and if Fred did not come to see him in the morning, 
he was in duty bound to ride over to her quarters in 
the afternoon. 

The officer in command during his absence was 
a Captain Holt, a man who had no use for an 
Indian in any capacity, and whose only idea of settling 
the vexed question of their rights was total extermi¬ 
nation and grave-room—an opinion that is expressed 
by many a white man who has had to deal with them. 
But he was divided between his impulse to send the 
trio on a double-quick about their business and the 
doubt as to what effect it would have on the tribe if 
they were sent back to it in the sulks. Ordinarily 
he would not have given their state of mind a 
moment’s consideration; but the situation was not 
exactly ordinary, and he hesitated. 

After stowing away enough provender in their stom¬ 
achs to last an ordinary individual two days, and stow¬ 
ing the remainder in convenient receptacles about their 
draperies, intercourse was resumed with their white 
hosts by the suggestive Kalitan. 

Just then Stuart and Rachel rode into camp. They 
had taken to riding together into camp, and out of 
camp, and in a good many directions of late; and in 
the coffee-colored trio she at once recognized the 
brave of the bear-claws whom she had spoken with dur¬ 
ing that "oiallie" season in the western hills, and whom 
she had learned since was a great friend of Genesee’s* 


236 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


She Spoke to him at once—a great deal more intel¬ 
ligibly than her first attempt—and upon questioning, 
learned that she was well remembered. She heard her¬ 
self called “the squaw who rides” by him, proba¬ 
bly from the fact that she was the only white woman 
met by their hunters in the hills, though she had not 
imagined herself so well known by them as his words 
implied. 

He of the bear-claws—their spokesman—mentioned 
Kalitan, giving her for the first time an idea of what 
had occurred. She turned at once to Captain Holt— 
not protesting, but interested—and learned all she 
wanted to. 

“Kalitan does not like your southern scouts, for 
some reason,” she said, “and I rather think it was his 
dignity rather than his loyalty that would suffer from 
having one of them a listener. Let them speak in 
my presence; I can understand them, and not arouse 
Kalitan’s pride, either.” 

And the Captain, nothing loath, accepted her guid¬ 
ance out of the dilemma, though it was only by a 
good deal of flattery on her part that Kalitan could 
at all forget his anger enough to speak to anyone. 

And the conversation was, after all, commonplace 
enough, as it was mostly a recital of his—Kalitan’s— 
glories; for in the eyes of these provincials he posed 
as a warrior of travel and accumulated knowledge. 
The impassive faces of his listeners gave no sign as 
to whether they took him at his own valuation or not. 
Rachel now and then added a word, to keep from 
having too entirely the appearance of a listener, and 
she asked of Genesee. 

The answer gave her to understand that w^eeks ago 
—five weeks—Genesee had been in their village; asked 


LL KILL HIM THIS TIME.” 


237 


for a runner to go south to the Fort with talking- 
paper. Had bought pack-horse and provisions, and 
started alone to the northeast—may be Blackfoot 
Agency, they could not say; had seen him no more. 
Kalitan made some rapid estimate of probabilities 
that found voice in— 

‘‘Blackfoot — one hundred and twenty miles; go . 
slow—Mowitza tired; long wau-wau (talk); come 
slow—snows high; come soon now, may be.” 

And that was really the only bit of information in 
the entire wau-zvau" that was of interest to the camp 
—information that Kalitan would have disdained to 
satisfy them with willingly; and even to Rachel, 
whom he knew was Genesee^s friend, and his, he did 
not hint the distrust that had grown among the troops 
through that suspicious absence. 

He would talk long and boastfully of his own affairs, 
but it was a habit that contrasted strangely with the 
stubborn silence by which he guarded the affairs of 
others. 

‘‘What is the matter back there?” asked Rachel, as 
'she and Stuart started back to the ranch. “Ill-feel¬ 
ing?” 

“Oh, I guess not much,” he answered; “only they 
are growing careful of the Indians of late—afraid of 
them imposing on good nature, I suppose.” 

“A little good nature in Captain Holt would do 
him no harm with the Indians,” she rejoined; “and he 
should know better than to treat Kalitan in that sus¬ 
picious way. Major Dreyer would not do it, I feel 
sure, and Genesee won’t like it.” 

“Will that matter much to the company or the com¬ 
mand? ” 

He only spoke so to arouse that combative spirit 


238 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


of hers; but she did not retort as usual—only said qui¬ 
etly: 

"Yes, I think it would—they will *find no man like 
him. ” 

They never again referred to that conversation that 
had been in a way a confession on his part—the ques¬ 
tion of the woman at least was never renewed, though 
he told her much of vague plans that he hoped to 
develop, “when the time comes.’’ 

Three days after the visit of Bear-claws and his 
brethren, those two were again at the camp; this 
time as an addition to Miss Fred, who thought it was 
a good-enough day to go and see the "boys.” 

And it surely was a good-enough day for any use— 
clear and fresh overhead, white and sparkling under¬ 
foot, and just cold enough to make them think with 
desire of the cheery wood fires in the camp they were ' 
making for. From above, a certain exhilaration was 
borne to them on the air, sifted through the cedars of 
the guardian hills; even the horses seemed enthused 
with the spirit of it, and joyously entered into a sort 
of a go-as-you-please race that brought them all laugh¬ 
ing and breathless down the length of "the avenue,” 
a strip of beaten path about twenty feet wide, along 
which the tents were pitched in two rows facing each 
other—and not very imposing looking rows, either. 

There were greetings and calls right and left, as 
they went helter-skelter down the line; but there was 
no check of speed until they stopped, short, at the 
Major’s domicile, that was only a little more grand 
on the outside than the rest, by having the colors 
whipping themselves into shreds from the flag-staff at 
the door. 

It was too cold for ceremony; and throwing the bri- 


“i’ll kill him this time. 


239 


dies to an orderly, they made a dash for the door— 
Miss Fred leading. 

“Engaged is he?” she said good-humoredly to the 
man who stepped in her path. “I don’t care if he is 
married. I don’t intend to freeze on the place where 
his door-step ought to be. You tell him so.” 

The man on duty touched his cap and disappeared, 
and from the sound of the Major’s laughter within, 
must have repeated the message verbatim, and a 
moment later returned. 

“Major Dreyer says you may enter; ” and then, laugh¬ 
ing and shivering, the Major’s daughter seized Rachel 
with one hand, Stuart with the other, and making a 
quick charge, darted into the ruling presence. 

“Oh, you bear!” she said, breaking from her com¬ 
rades and into the bear’s embrace; “to keep us out 
there—and it so cold! And I came over specially 
for—” 

And then she stopped. The glitter of the sun on 
the snow had made a glimmer of everything under a 
roof, and on her entrance she had not noticed a fig¬ 
ure opposite her father, until a man rose to his feet 
and took a step forward as if to go. 

“Let me know when you want me. Major,” he said; 
and the voice startled those two muffled figures in 
the background, for both, by a common impulse, 
started forward—Rachel throwing back the hood of 
her jacket and holding out her hand. 

“I am glad you have come,” she said heartily, and 
he gripped the offered member with a sort of fierce¬ 
ness as he replied: 

“Thank you. Miss.” 

But his eyes were not on her. The man who had 
come with her—who still held her gloves in his 


240 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


hand—was the person who seemed to draw all his 
attention. 

‘‘You two are old neighbors, are you not?” remarked 
the Major. ‘‘Fred, my dear, you have met Mr. Gen¬ 
esee, our scout? No? Mr. Genesee, this is my 
daughter; and this, a friend of ours—Mr. Stuart.” 

An ugly devil seemed alive in Genesee’s eyes, as 
the younger man came closer, and with an intense, 
expressive-gesture, put out his hand. 

And then, with a bow that might be an acknowl¬ 
edgment of the introduction, and might be only one 
of adieu to the rest of the group, the scout walked to 
the door without a word, and Stuart’s hand dropped 
to his side. 

‘‘Come back in an hour, Genesee,” said the Major; 
‘‘I will think over the trip to the Fort in the mean¬ 
time. ” 

‘‘I hear. Good-morning, ladies; ” and then the door 
closed behind him, and the quartette could not but 
feel the situation awkward. 

‘‘Come closer to the fire—sit down, ” said the Major 
hospitably, intent on effacing the rudeness of his 
scout. ‘‘Take off your coat, Stuart; you’ll appreciate 
it more when outside. And I’m going to tell you right 
now, that, pleased as I am to have you all come this 
morning, I intend to turn you out in twenty minutes 
— that’s all the time I can give to pleasure this morn¬ 
ing.” 

‘‘Well, you are very uncivil, I must say,” remarked 
Fred. ‘‘But we will find some of the other boys not 
so unapproachable. I guess,” she added, ‘‘that we 
have to thank Mr. Man-with-the-voice for being sent 
to the right-about in such short order.” 

‘‘You did not hear him use it much,” rejoined her 


“i’ll kill him this time. 


241 


father, and then turned to the others, neither of whom 
had spoken. “He is quite a character, and of great 
value to us in the Indian troubles, but I believe is 
averse to meeting strangers; anyway, the men down 
at the Fort did not take to him much—not enough to 
make him a social success.” 

“I don’t think he would care,” said Fred. “He 
impressed me very much as Kalitan did when I first 
met him. Does living in the woods make people feel 
like monarchs of all they survey? Does your neigh¬ 
bor ever have any better manners, Rachel?” 

“I have seen him with better—and with worse.” 

“Worse? What possibilities there must be in that 
man! What do you think, Mr. Stuart?” 

“Perhaps he lacks none of the metal of a soldier 
because he does not happen to possess that of a court¬ 
ier, ” hazarded Stuart, showing no sign that the scout’s 
rudeness had aroused the slightest feeling of resent¬ 
ment; and Rachel scored an opinion in his favor for 
that generosity, for she, more than either of the oth¬ 
ers, had noted the meeting, and Genesee’s entire dis¬ 
regard of the Stuart’s feelings. 

Major Dreyer quickly seconded Stuart’s statement. 

“You are right, sir. He maybe as sulky as Satan— 
and I hear he is at times—but his work makes amends 
for it when he gets where work is needed. He got in 
here last night, dead-beat, from a trip that I don’t 
believe any other man but an Indian could have made 
and get back alive. He has his good points—and they 
happen to be points that are in decided demand up here. ” 

“I don’t care about his good points, if we have to 
be turned out for him,” said Fred. “Send him word 
he can sleep the rest of the day, if he is tired out; 
may be he would wake up more agreeable.” 

16 


242 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


"And you would not be ousted from my attention," 
added her father, pinching her ear. "Are you jealous 
of Squaw-man-with-a-voice? ” 

"Is he that?" asked the girl, with a great deal of con¬ 
tempt in her tone. "Well, that is enough to hear of 
him. I should think he would avoid white peopld. 
The specimens we have seen of that class would make 
you ashamed you were human," she said, turning to 
Rachel and Stuart. "I know papa says there are 
exceptions, but papa is imaginative. This one looks 
rather prosperous, and several degrees cleaner than 
Pve seen them, but—" 

"Don’t say anything against him until you know 
you have reason, Fred," suggested Rachel. "He did 
me a favor once, and I can’t allow people to talk 
about him on hearsay. I think he is worse than few 
and better than many, and I have known him over a 
year." 

"Mum is the word," said Fred promptly, proceed¬ 
ing to gag herself with two little fists; but the experi¬ 
ment was a failure. 

"If she takes him under her wing, papa, his social 
success is an assured fact, even if he refuses to open 
his mouth. May I expect to be presented to his inter¬ 
esting'family to-morrow, Rachel?" 

But Rachel only laughed, and asked the Major some 
questions of reports from the northeast; of the atti¬ 
tude of the Blackfeet, and the snow-fall in the mountains. 

"The Blackfeet are all right now,” he replied, "and 
the snows in the hills to the east are very heavy—that 
it was that caused our scout’s delay. But south of 
us I hear they are not nearly so bad, for a wonder, 
and am glad to hear it, as I myself may need to make 
a trip down to Fort Owens.” 


i’ll kill him this time.” 


243 


“Why, papa," broke in his commanding officer, “j^ou 
are not going to turn scout or runner, are you, and 
leave me behind? I won’t stay! ” 

“You will obey orders, as a soldier should,” answered 
her father. “But if I go instead of sending, it will 
be because it is necessary, and you would have to 
bow to necessity, and wait until I could get back.” 

"And we’ve got to thank Mr. Squaw-man for that, 
too!’’ burst out Fred wrathfully. “You never thought 
of going until he came; oh, I know it—I hate him!" 

“He would be heart-broken if he knfew it," observed 
her father dryly. “By the way. Miss Rachel, do you 
know if there is room in the ranch stables for 
another horse?” 

“They can make room, if it is necessary. Why?" 

“Genesee’s mare is used up even worse than her 
master by this long, hard journey he has made. Our 
stock that is in good condition can stand our accom¬ 
modations all right, but that fellow seemed misera¬ 
ble to think the poor beast had not quarters equal to 
his own. He is such a queer fellow about asking 
a favor that I thought—” 

"And the thought does you credit,” said the girl 
with a suspicious moisture in her eyes. “Poor, brave 
Mowitza! I could not sleep very soundly myself if I 
knew she was not cared for, and I know just how he 
feels. Don’t say anything about it to him, but I will 
have my cousin come over and get her, before even- 
ing." 

“You are a trump. Miss Rachel!” said the Major 
emphatically; “and if you can arrange it, I know you 
will lift a load off Genesee’s mind. Pll wager he is 
out there in the shed with her at this moment, instead 
of beside a comfortable fire; and this camp owes him 


244 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


too much, if it only knew it, to keep from him any 
comforts for either himself or that plucky bit of horse¬ 
flesh. ” 

And then the trio, under guard of the Lieutetiant, 
paid some other calls along the avenue—were offered 
more dinners, if they would remain, than they could 
have eaten in a week; but in all their visits they saw 
nothing more of the scout. Rachel spoke of his 
return to one of the men, and received the answer that 
they reckoned he was putting in most of his time out 
in the shed tying the blankets off his bunk around 
that mare of his. 

“Poor Mowitza! she was so beautiful,” said the girl, 
with a memory of the silken coat and wise eyes. “I 
would not like to see her looking badly.” 

“Do you know,” said Stuart to her, “that when I 
heard you speak of Mowitza and her beauty and brav¬ 
ery, I never imagined you meant a four-footed ani¬ 
mal?” 

“What, then?” 

“Well, I am afraid it was a nymph of the dusky 
tribe—a woman." 

“Naturally! ” was the one ironical and impatient 
word he received as answer, and scarcely noted. 

He was talking with the others on multitudinous 
subjects, laughing, and interested in jests that he 
scarcely heard, and the hand he had offered to Genesee 
clenching and opening nervously in his seal glove. 

Rachel watched him closely. She had no reason, 
but her instincts anticipated something unusual 
from that meeting; but. the reality had altered the posi¬ 
tions of the men from all her preconceived fancies. 
More strong than ever was her conviction that those 
two were not strangers; but from StuarPs face or 


“i’ll kill him this time.” 


245 


manner she could learn nothing. He was a much 
better actor than Genesee. 

But if they did not see any more of him, he at 
least saw them; for from the shed, off several rods 
from the avenue, the trail to Hardy’s ranch was in 
plain sight half its length. And the party, augmented 
by Lieutenant Murray, galloped past in all ignorance 
of moody eyes watching them from the side of a 
blanketed horse. 

Out a half-mile, two of the riders halted a moment, 
while the others dashed on. The horses of those two 
moved close—close together. The arms of the man 
reached over to the woman, who leaned toward him. 
At that distance it looked like an embrace, though he 
was really but tying a loose scarf, and then they moved 
apart and went on over the snow, after their com¬ 
rades. And a brutal oath burst from the lips of the 
man she had said was worse than few. 

“If it is—ITl kill him this time! 
kill him 1” 


By God!—I’ll 


246 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

AFTER TEN YEARS. 

Major Dreyer left the next day, with a scout and 
small detachment, with the idea of making the jour¬ 
ney to Fort Owens and back in two weeks, as matters 
were to be discussed requiring prompt action and per¬ 
sonal influence. 

Jack Genesee was left behind—an independent, unen¬ 
listed adjunct to the camp, and holding a more anomal¬ 
ous position there than Major Dreyer dreamed of; for 
none of the suspicions current of the scout ever pene¬ 
trated to his tent—the only one in the company who 
was ignorant of them. 

“Captain Holt commands,. Genesee, ” he had said 
before taking leave: “but on you I depend chiefly in 
negotiations with the reds, should there be any before 
I get back, for I believe you would rather save lives 
on both sides than win a victory through extermination 
of the hostiles. We need more men with those opin¬ 
ions; so, remember, I trust you. ” 

The words had been uttered in the presence of oth¬ 
ers, and strengthened the suspicions of the camp that 
Genesee had been playing some crooked game. None 
knew the reason for that hastily decided trip of the 
Major’s, though they all agreed that that “d—d skunk 
of a squaw man” was posted. Prophecies were rife to 
the effect that more than likely he was playing into 
the hands of the hostiles by sending away the Major 
and as many men as possible on some wild-goose 


AFTER TEN YEARS, 


247 


chase; and the decision arrived at was that observa¬ 
tion of his movements was a matter of policy, and 
readiness to meet an attack from the hills a probable 
necessity. 

He saw it—had seen it from the day of his arrival— 
and he kept pretty much out of the way of all except 
Kalitan; for in watching Genesee they found they 
would have to include his runner, who was never will¬ 
ingly far away. 

But for the first few days their watching was an 
easy matter, for the suspected individual appeared 
well content to hug the camp, only making daily vis¬ 
its to Hardy’s stable, generally in the evening; but to 
enter the house was something he kept clear of. 

“No,” he said, in answer to Hardy’s invitation; “I 
reckon I’m more at home with the horses than with 
your new company. I’ll drop in sometime after the 
Kootenai valley is clear of uniforms.” 

“My wife told me to ask you,” said Hardy; “and 
when you feel like coming, you’ll find the door open.” 

“Thank you, Hardy; but I reckon not—not for 
awhile yet.” 

“Pd like you to get acquainted with Stuart,” added 
the unsuspicious ranchman. "He is a splendid fel¬ 
low, and has a lot of interest in this part of the coun¬ 
try. ” 

“Oh, he has!” 

“Yes," and Hardy settled himself, Mexican fashion, 
to a seat on his heels. “You see he’s a writer, a nov¬ 
elist, and I guess he’s going to write up this territory 
some. Anyway, this is the second trip he has come 
up here on. You could give him more points than 
any man I know.” 

“Yes—I might.” 


248 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Rachel has given him all the knowledge she has 
about the country—the Indians, and all that—but she 
owns that all she learned she got from you; so, if 
you had a mind to be more sociable, Genesee—’’ 

The other arose to his feet. 

“Obliged to you, Hardy,” he said; and only the addi¬ 
tion of the name saved it from curtness. “Some day, 
perhaps, when things are slack; I have no time now.” 

“Well, he doesn’t seem to me to be rushed to death 
with work,” soliloquized Hardy, who was abruptly left 
alone. “He used to seem like such an all-round good 
fellow, but he’s getting surlier than the devil. May 
be Tillie was right to hope he wouldn’t accept the 
invitation. Hello, Stuart! Where are you bound 
for?” 

“Nowhere in particular. I thought that Indian, 
Kalitan, was over here.” 

“No; Jack Genesee came over himself this morn¬ 
ing. That mare of his is coming up in great shape, 
and you’d better believe he’s proud over it. I reckon 
he saw you coming that he took himself away in such 
a hurry. He’s a queer one.” 

“I should judge so. Then Kalitan won’t be over?” 

“Well, he’s likely to be before night. Want him?” 

“Yes. If you see him, will you send him to the 
house?” 

Hardy promised; and Kalitan presented himself, with 
the usual interrogation: 

“Rashell Hardy?” 

But she, the head of the house in his eyes, was in 
the dark about his visit, and was not enlightened much 
when Stuart entered, stating that it was he who had 
wanted Kalitan. 

But that personage was at once deaf and dumb. 


AFTER TEN YEARS. 


249 


S' 

Only by Rachel saying, “It is my friend; will you not 
listen?? did he unbend at all; and the girl left them 
on the porch alone, and a little later Stuart went 
upstairs, where she heard him walking up and down 
the room. She had heard a good deal of that since that 
day the three had called upon the Major, and a change 
had come over the spirit of their social world; for 
where Stuart had been the gayest, they could never 
depend on him now. Even Rachel found their old 
pleasant companionship ended suddenly, and she felt, 
despite his silence, he was unhappy. 

“Well, when he finds his tongue he will tell me 
what’s the matter,” she decided, and so dismissed that 
question. 

And she rode to camp alone if it was needful, and 
sometimes caught a glimpse of Genesee if he did not 
happen to see her first; but he no longer came for¬ 
ward to speak, as the rest did—only, perhaps, a touch 
of his hat and a step aside into the walls of some tent, 
and she knew she was avoided. A well-regulated young 
lady, of orthodox tendencies, would have held her 
head a little higher next time they met, and not have 
seen him at all; but this one was wofully deficient 
in those self-respecting bulwarks; so, when the next 
time she happened to be at the end of the avenue, 
she turned her steed directly across the path of his, 
and called a halt. 

“Good-morning, Miss Rachel.” 

"Klahowya, tillikum^" she answered, bringing him 
back to a remembrance of his Chinook. “Jack Gen¬ 
esee, do you intend ever to come to see us— I mean 
to walk in like your old self, instead of looking 
through the window at night?” 

“Looking—” 


250 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Don’t lie,” she said coolly, “for I saw you, though 
no one else did. Now tell me what’s wrong. Why 
won’t you come in the house?" 

“Society is more select in the Kootenai hills than 
it was a year ago; ” he answered with a sort of defiance. 
“Do you reckon there is an}^ woman in the house who 
would speak to me if she could get out of it—any¬ 
one except you?" 

“Oh, I don’t count." 

“I had an ‘invite’ this morning," he added grimly 
—“not because they wanted me, but because your new 
friend over there wanted someone to give him points 
about the country; so I’ve got him to thank for 
being wanted at all. Now don’t look like that—or 
think I’m kicking. It’s a square enough deal so far 
as I’m concerned, and it stands to reason a man of my 
stamp hasn’t many people pining for him in a respect¬ 
able house. For the matter of that, it won’t do you 
any good to be seen talking to me this long. I’m 
going.” 

“All right; so am I. You can go along." 

“With you?" 

“Certainly. ” 

“I reckon not.” 

“Don’t be so stubborn. If you didn’t feel like 
coming, you would not have been at that window 
last night. ” 

His face flushed at this thrust which he could not 
parry. 

“Well, I reckon I won’t go there again.” 

“No; come inside next time. Come, ride half-way 
to the ranch along, and tell me about that trip of 
yours to the Blackfeet. Major Dreyer gave you great 
praise for your work there.” 


AFTER TEN YEARS. 


251 


“He should have praised you; ” and her own color 
deepened at the significance of his words. 

“I met Kalitan on his way to the ranch, as I came,” 
she said in the most irrelevant way. 

He looked at her very sharply, but didn’t speak. 

“Well, are you going to escort me home, or must I 
go alone?” 

“It is daylight; you know every foot of the way, 
and you don’t need me, “he said, summing up the case 
briefly. “When you do, let me know.” 

“And you won’t come?” she added good-naturedly. 
“All right. Klahowya!" 

And then she moved out of his way, touched Betty 
with the whip, and started homeward. She rather 
expected to meet Kalitan again, but there was no 
sign of him on the road; and when she reached the 
house, found that youth ensconced among the pillows 
of the largest settee with the air of a king on a throne, 
and watching with long, unblinking stares Miss Fred, 
who was stumbling over the stitches of some crochet- 
work for the adornment of Miss Margaret. 

“I’m so glad you’ve come! ” she breathed gratefully. 
“He has me so nervous I can’t count six; and Mrs. 
Hardy is taking a nap, and Aunty Luce has locked 
herself upstairs, and I never was stared so out of 
countenance in my life.” 

“I rather think that’s a phase of Indian courtship,” 
Rachel comforted her by saying; “so you have won 
a new admirer. What is it, Kalitan?” 

He signified that his business was with the “Man- 
who-laughs, ” the term by which he designated Stuart. 

“Mr. Stuart left the house just after you did,” said 
Fred; “I thought, perhaps, to catch you.” 

“No, he didn’t go my way. Well,you look comfortable, 


252 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


Kalitan; and if you had the addition of another crazy- 
patch cushion for your left elbow, you might stand a 
little longer wait—think so?” 

Kalitan thought he could; and there he remained 
until Stuart arrived, flushed and rather breathless 
from his ride from somewhere. 

‘‘I was out on the road, but did not see you,” said 
Rachel, on his entrance. 

“That is likely enough,” he answered. “I didn’t 
want you to—or anyone else. “I’m not good com¬ 
pany of late. I was trying to ride away from myself.” 
Then he saw Kalitan, propped among the cushions. 
“Well,” he said sharply; “what have you brought 
me?” 

Kalitan answered by no word, but thrust his hand 
inside his hunting-shirt and brought forth an envel¬ 
ope, which he gave into the eager hands reaching for 
it. 

Stuart gave it one quick glance, turning it in his hand 
to examine both sides, and then dropped it in his 
pocket and sat down by the window. Rachel could 
see it was a thick, well-filled envelope, and that the 
shape was the same used by Stuart himself, very large 
and perfectly square—a style difficult to duplicate in 
the Kootenai hills. 

“You can go now, if you choose, Kalitan,” she said, 
fearing his ease would induce him to stay all night, 
and filled with a late alarm at the idea of Tillie get¬ 
ting her eyes on the peaceful “hostile” and her gor¬ 
geous cushions; and without any further notice of Stu¬ 
art, Kalitan took his leave. 

When Rachel re-entered the room, a moment later, a 
letter was crisping into black curl s in the fire-place, and 
the man sat watching it moodily. 


AFTER TEN YEARS. 


253 


All that evening there was scarcely question or 
answer to be got from Stuart. He sat by the fire, with 
Miss Margaret in his arms—her usual place of an 
evening; and through the story-telling and jollity he 
sat silent, looking, Jim said, as if he was “workin’hard 
at thinkin’.” 

“To-morrow night you must tell us a story,” said 
Miss Fred, turning to him. ‘‘You have escaped now 
for—oh, ever so many nights.” 

“I am afraid my stock is about exhausted.” 

“Out of the question! The flimsiest of excuses,” 
she decided. “Just imagine a new one, and tell it us 
instead of writing it; or tell us the one you are writ¬ 
ing at now. ” 

“Well, we will see when to-morrow comes;” and 
with that vague proposal Miss Fred had to be con¬ 
tent. 

But when the morrow came the Stuart looked as if 
there had been no night for him— at least no sleep; 
and Rachel, or even MacDougall himself, would not 
think of calling him Prince Charlie, as of old. 

She was no longer so curious about him and that other 
man who was antagonistic to him. She had been fear¬ 
ful, but whatever knowledge they had of each other 
she had decided would not mean harm; the quiet 
days that had been let go by were a sort of guarantee 
of that. 

But they seemed to have nerved Stuart up to some 
purpose, and the morning after the burning of the let¬ 
ter he appeared suddenly at the door of Genesee’s 
shack, or the one Major Dreyer had turned over to him 
during his own absence. 

From the inside Kalitan appeared, as if by enchant¬ 
ment, at the sound of a hand on the latch. Stuart, 


254 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


with a gesture, motioned him aside, and evidently to 
Kalitan’s own surprise, he found himself stepping out 
while the stranger stepped in. For perhaps a minute 
the Indian stood still, listening, and then, no sounds 
of hostilities coming to his ears, an expressive guttural 
testified to his final acquiescence, and he moved away. 
His hesitation showed that Rachel had not been the 
only one to note the bearing of those two toward each 
other. 

But had he listened a minute longer, he might have 
heard the peace within broken by the voices that, at first 
suppressed and intense, rose with growing earnestness. 

The serious tones of Stuart sounded through the thin 
board walls in expostulation, and again as if urging 
some point that was granted little patience; for above 
it the voice of Genesee broke in, all the mellowness gone 
from it, killed by the brutal harshness, the contempt¬ 
uous derision, with which he answered some plea or 
proposition. 

"Oh, you come to me now, do you?” he said, walk¬ 
ing back and forth across the room like some animal 
fighting to keep back rage with motion, if one can 
imagine an animal trying to put restraint on itself; 
and at every turn his smoldering, sullen gaze flashed 
over the still figure inside the door, and its manner, 
with a certain calm steadfastness of purpose, not to be 
upset by anger, seemed to irritate him all the more. 
"So you come this time to lay out proposals tome, eh? 
And think, after all these years, that I’m to be talked 
over to what you want by a few soft words? Well, I’ll 
see you d—d first; so you can strike the back trail as 
soon as you’ve a mind to.” 

"I shan’t go back,” said Stuart deliberately, "until 
I get what I came for.” 


AFTER TEN YEARS. 


255 


The other answered with a short, mirthless laugh. 

“Then you’re located till doomsday,” he retorted, 
“and doomsday in the afternoon; though I reckon that 
won’t be much punishment, considering the attrac¬ 
tions you manage to find up here, and the advantages 
you carry with you—a handsome face, a gentleman’s 
manners, and an honest name. Why, you are begging 
on a full hand. Mister; and what are you begging to? 
A man that’s been about as good as dead for years — 
a man without any claim to a name, or to recognition 
by decent people—an outlaw from civilization.” 

“Not so bad as that. Jack,” broke in Stuart, who 
was watching in a sort of misery the harsh self-con¬ 
demnation in the restless face and eyes of Genesee. 
“Don’t be so bitter as that on yourself. You are 
unjust—don’t I know?” 

“The-you say! ” was the withering response to 

this appeal, as if with the aid of profanity to destroy 
the implied compliment to himself. “Your opinion 
may go for a big pile among your fine friends, but it 
don’t amount to much right here. And you’d better 
beat a retreat, sir. The reputation of the highly 
respected Charles Stuart, the talented writer, the 
honorable gentleman, might get some dirty marks 
across it if folks knew he paid strictly private 
visits to Genesee Jack, a renegade squaw man; and 
more still if they guessed that he came for a favor— 
that’s what you called it when you struck the shack, I 
believe. A favor! It has taken you a good while to 
find that name for it.” 

“No, it has not. Jack, ” and the younger man’s ear¬ 
nestness of purpose seemed to rise superior to the 
taunts and sarcasm of the other. “It was so from the 
first, when I realized—after I knew—I didn’t seem to 


256 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


have thoughts for anything else. It was a sort of jus¬ 
tice, I suppose, that made me want them when I had 
put it out of my power to reach them. You don’t 
seem to know what it means. Jack, but I—I am home¬ 
sick for them; I have been for years, and now that 
things have changed so for me, I—Jack, for God’s 
sake, have some feeling! and realize that other men 
can have ! ” 

Jack turned on him like a flash. 

“You—you say that to me!” he muttered fiercely. 
“You, who took no count of anybody’s feelings but 
your own, and thought God Almighty had put the 
best things on this earth for you to use and destroy! 
Killing lives as sure as if they’d never drawn another 
breath, and forgetting all about it with the next pretty 
face you saw! If that is what having a stock of feel¬ 
ing leads a man to, I reckon we’re as well off with¬ 
out any such extras.” 

Stuart had sat down on a camp-stool, his face buried 
in his hands, and there was a long silence after Gen¬ 
esee’s bitter words, as he stood looking at the bent 
head with an inexplicable look in his stormy eyes. 
Then his visitor arose. 

“Jack, ” he said with the same patience—not a word 
of retort had come from him—“Jack, I’ve been pun¬ 
ished every day since. I have tried to forget it—to 
kill all memory by every indulgence and distraction 
in my reach—pursued forgetfulness so eagerly that 
people have thought me still chasing pleasure. I 
turned to work, and worked hard, but the practice 
brought to my knowledge so many lives made wretched 
as—as—well, I could not stand it. The heart-sickness 
it brought me almost drove me melancholy mad. The 
only bright thing in life was—the children—” 




AFTER TEN YEARS. 


257 


An oath broke from Genesee’s lips. 

“And then,” continued Stuart, without any notice 
save a quick closing of the eyes as if from a blow, 
“and then they died—both of them. That was justice, 
too, no doubt, for they stayed just long enough to make 
themselves a necessity to me—a solace—and to make 
me want what I have lost. I am telling you this 
because I want you to know that I have had things to 
try me since I saw you last, and that I’ve come through 
them with the conviction that there is to be no 
content in life to me until I make what amends I can 
for the folly of the boy you knew. The thought has 
become a monomania with me. I hunted for months 
for you, and never found a trace. Then I wrote— 
there. ” 

“You did!” 

“Yes, I did—say what you please, do what you 
please. It was my only hope, and I took it. I told 
her I was hunting for you—and my purpose. In return 
I got only this,” and he handed toward Genesee a 
sheet of paper with one line written across it. “You 
see—your address, nothing more. But, Jack, can’t 
you see it would not have been sent if she had not 
wished—” 

“That’s enough!” broke in the other. “I reckon 
Pve given you all the time I have to spare this morn¬ 
ing, Mister. You’re likely to strike better luck in 
some different direction than talking sentiment and 
the state of your feelings to me. I’ve been acquainted 
with them before—pretty much—and don’t recollect 
that the effect was healthy.” 

“Jack, you will do what I ask?” 

“Not this morning, sonny,” answered the other, 
still with that altogether aggressive taunt in his 

^7 


258 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


tone. “I would go back to the ranch if I was you, and 
by this time to-morrow some of them may make you 
forget the favor you want this morning. So long! 

And with this suggestion to his guest to vacate, he 
turned his back, sat down by the fire, and began fill¬ 
ing a pipe. 

“All right; Pll go, and in spite of your stubborn¬ 
ness, with a lighter heart than I carried here, for 
I’ve made you understand that I want to make 
amends, and that I have not been all a liar; that I 
want to win back the old faith you all had in me; and. 
Jack, if my head has gone wrong, something in my 
heart forbade me to have content, and that has been 
my only hope for myself. For I have a hope, and a 
determination. Jack, and as for anyone helping me to 
forget—well, you are wrong there; one woman might 
do it—for a while—I acknowledge that, but I am safe 
in knowing she would rather help me to remember.” 

Genesee wheeled about quickly. 

“Have you dared—” 

“No, 1 have not told her, if that is what you mean; 
why—why should I?” 

But his denial weakened a little as he remembered 
how closely his impulse had led him to it, and how 
strong, though reasonless, that impulse had been. 

The stem of the pipe snapped in Genesee’s fingers 
as he arose, pushing the camp-stool aside with his 
foot, as if clearing space for action. 

“Since you own up that there’s someone about 
here that you—you’ve taken a fancy to—damn you! — 
I’m going to tell you right now that you’ve got to 
stop that! You’re no more fit than I am to speak to 
her, or ask for a kind word from her, and I give you 
a pointer that if you try playing fast and loose with 


AFTER TEN YEARS. 


259 


her, there’ll be a committee of one to straighten out 
the case, and do it more complete than that man did 
who was a fool ten years ago. Now, hearken to that 
—will you?” 

And then, without waiting an answer, he strode out 
of the shack, slamming the door after him, and leav¬ 
ing his visitor in possession. 

‘‘I’ve got to show him, by staying right in these 
hills, that I am in earnest,” Stuart decided, taking 
the seat his host had kicked aside, and stretching his 
feet out to the fire. ‘‘No use in arguing or pleading 
with him—there never was. But give him his own 
lead, and he will come around to the right point of 
view, though he may curse me up hill and down 
dale while he is doing it; a queer, queer fellow—God 
bless him! And how furious he w?s about that girl! 
Those two are a sort of David and Jonathan in their 
defense of each other, and yet never exchange words 
if they can help it—that’s queer, too—it would be hard 
telling which of them is the more so. Little need to 
warn any man away from her, however; she is capa¬ 
ble of taking very good care of herself.” 

There was certainly more than one of womankind 
at the ranch; but to hear the speech of those two 
men, one would doubt it; for neither had thought it 
necessary to even mention her name. 


26 o 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE TELLING OF A STORY. 

"But you promised! Yes, you did, Mr. Stuart— 
didn’t he, Mrs. Hardy? There, that settles it; so you 
see this is your evening to tell a story.” 

The protracted twilight, with its cool grays and 
purples, had finally faded away over the snow, long 
after the stars took up their watch for the night. The 
air was so still and so chill that the bugle-call at 
sunset had sounded clearly along the little valley 
from camp, and Fred thought the nearness of sound 
made a house seem so much more home-like. But 
after the bugle notes and the long northern twilight, 
had come the grouping of the young folks about the fire, 
and Fred’s reminder that this was to be a "story” night. 

"But,” declared Stuart, "I can think of none, 
except a very wonderful one of an old lady who lived 
in a shoe, and another of a house marvelously con¬ 
structed by a gentleman called Jack—” 

But here a clamor arose from the rebels in the 
audience, and from Fred the proposal that he should 
read or tell them of what he w^as working on at 
present, and gaining at last his consent. 

‘But I must bring down some notes in manuscript,” 
he added, "as part of it is only mapped out, and my 
memory is treacherous.” 

"I will go and get them,” offered Fied. "No, 
don’t you go! Pm afraid to let 3 ^ou out of the room, 
lest you may remember some late business at camp 



THE TELLING OF A STORY. 


261 


and take French leave. Is the manuscript on the table 
in your room? I’ll bring it.” 

And scarcely waiting either assent or remonstrance, 
she ran up the stairs, returning immediately with 
handfuls of loose sheets and two rolls of manu¬ 
script. 

“I confiscated all there was in reach,” she laughed. 
“Here they are; you pay no money, and you take your 
choice. ” 

She was such a petite, pretty little creature, her 
witchy face alight with the confidence of pleasure to 
come; and looking down at her, he remarked: 

“You look so much a spirit of inspiration, Miss 
Fred, that you had better not make such a sweeping 
offer, lest I might be tempted to choose you.” 

“And have a civil war on your hands,” warned 
Rachel, “with the whole camp in rebellion.” 

“Not much; they don’t value me so highly, ” confessed 
Fred. “They would all be willing to give me away.” 

“A willingness only seconded by your own.” This 
from the gallant Lieutenant on the settee. “My child, 
this is not leap-year, and in the absence of your parent 
I—” 

“Yes, I know. But as Captain Holt commands in 
papa’s absence, I don’t see what extra responsibility 
rests on your shoulders. Now, Mr. Stuart, all quiet 
along the Kootenai; go ahead.” 

“Not an easy thing to do,” he answered ruefully, 
trying to sort the jumbled lot of papers she had 
brought him, and beginning by laying the rolls of manu¬ 
script on the table back of him, as if disposing of them. 
“You have seized on several things that we could not 
possibly wade through in one evening; but here is the 
sketch I spoke of. It is of camp-life, by the way, 


262 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


and so open to criticism from you two veterans. It 
was suggested by a story I heard told at the Fort.” 

Just then a wild screech of terror sounded from the 
yard, and then an equally wild scramble across the 
porch. Everyone jumped to their feet, but Rachel 
reached the door first, just as Aunty Luce, almost gray 
from terror, floundered in. 

“They’s come!” she panted, in a sort of paralysis of 
fright and triumph of prophecy. “I done tole all you 
chillen ! Injuns! right here—I seed ’em!" 

Hardy reached for his gun, the others doing the 
same; but the girl at the door had darted out into 
the darkness. 

"Rachel!” screamed Tillie, but no Rachel answered. 
Even Hardy’s call was not heeded; and he followed 
her with something like an oath on his lips, and 
Stuart at his elbow. 

Outside, it seemed very dark after the brightness 
within, and they stopped on the porch an instant to 
guide themselves by sound, if there was any move¬ 
ment. 

There was—the least ominous of sounds—a laugh. 
The warlike attitude of all relaxed somewhat, for it 
was so high and clear that it reached even those 
within doors; and then, outlined against the back¬ 
ground of snow, Stuart and Hardy could see two forms 
near the gate—a tall and a short one, and the shorter 
one was holding to the sleeve of the other and laugh¬ 
ing. 

"You and Aunty Luce are a fine pair of soldiers,” 
she was saying; "both beat a retreat at the first 
glimpse of each other. And you can’t leave after 
upsetting everyone like this; you must come in the 
house and reassure them. Come on! ” 



THE TELLING OF A STORY. 263 

Some remonstrance was heard, and at the voice 
Hardy stepped out. 

“Hello, Genesee! ” he said, with a good deal of 
relief in his manner; “were you the scarecrow? 
Come in to the light, till we make sure we’re not to 
be scalped.” 

And then, with a few words from the girl that the 
others could not hear, he walked beside her to the 
porch. ^ 

“Pm mighty sorry. Hardy," he said as they met. 
“I was a little shaky about Mowitza to-day, and reck¬ 
oned rd better make an extra trip over; but I didn’t 
count on kicking up a racket like this—didn’t even 
spot the woman till she screeched and run.” 

“That’s all right,” said Hardy reassuringly. “I’m 
glad you came, whether intentionally or by accident. 
You know I told you the other day—" 

“Yes—I know.” 

Rachel and Stuart had entered the house ahead of 
them, and all had dropped back into their chosen 
points of vantage for the evening when assurance was 
given that the Indians belonged to Aunty’s imagina¬ 
tion; but for those short seconds of indecision Tillie had 
realized, as never before, that they were really.within 
the lines of the Indian country. 

Aunty Luce settled herself sulkily in the corner, 
a grotesque figure, with an injured air, eying Genesee 
with a suspicion not a whit allayed when she recog¬ 
nized the man who had brought the first customs of 
war to them—taking nocturnal possession of the best 
room. 

“No need tell me he’s a friend o’you all!” she 
grunted. “Nice sort o’ friend you’s cornin’ to, I say 
-—lives with Injuns; reckon I heard—umph!” 


264 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


This was an aside to Tillie, who was trying to keep 
her quiet, and not succeeding very well, much to the 
amusement of the others within hearing, especially 
Fred. 

Genesee had stopped in the outer room, speaking 
with Hardy; and, standing together on the hearth, in 
the light of the fire, it occurred to the group in the 
other room what a fine pair they made—each a piece 
of physical perfection in his way. 

"A pair of typical frontiersmen,” said Murray; and 
Miss Fred was pleased to agree, and add some praise 
on her own account. 

“Why, that man Genesee is really handsome,” she 
whispered; "he isn’t scowling like sin, as he was 
when I saw him before. Ask him in here, Mrs. 
Tillie; I like to look at him.” 

Mrs. Tillie had already made a movement toward 
him. Perhaps the steady, questioning gaze of Rachel 
had impelled her to follow what was really her desire, 
only—why need the man be so flagrantly improper? 
Tillie had a great deal of charity for black sheep, but 
she believed in them having a corral to themselves, and 
not allowing them the chance of smutching the spotless 
flocks that have had good luck and escaped the mire. 
She was a good little woman, and a warm-hearted one; 
and despite her cool condemnation of his/wickedness 
when he was absent, she always found herself, in his 
presence, forgetting all but their comradeship of that 
autumn, and greeting him with the cordiality that 
belonged to it. 

‘T shall pinch myself for this in the morning,” she 
prophesied, even while she held out her hand and 
reininded him that he had been a long time deciding 
about making them a visit. 


THE TELLING OF A STORY. 


265 


Her greeting was much warmer than her farewell 
had been the morning he left—possibly because of 
the relief in finding it was not a “hostile” at their 
gate. And he seemed more at ease, less as if he need 
to put himself on the defensive—an attitude that had 
grown habitual to him, as it does to many who live 
against the rulings of the world. 

She walked ahead of him into the other room, thus 
giving him no chance to object had he wanted to; 
and after a moment’s hesitation he followed her, and 
noticed, without seeming to look at any of them, that 
Rachel stood back of Stuart’s chair, and that Stuart 
was looking at him intently, as if for ’ recognition. 
On the other side, he saw the Lieutenant quietly lay 
his hand on Miss Fred’s wrist that was in shadow, 
just as she arose impulsively to offer her hand to the 
man whom she found was handsome when he had the 
aid of a razor. A beard of several weeks’ growth 
had covered his face at their first meeting; now there 
was only a heavy mustache left. But she heeded that 
silent pressure of the wrist more than she would a 
spoken word, and instead of the proffered hand there 
was a little constrained smile of recognition, and a 
hope given that Aunty Luce had not upset his nerves 
with her war-cries. 

He saw it all the moment he was inside the door— 
the refined face of Stuart, with the graciousness of 
manner so evidently acceptable to all, the sheets 
of manuscript still in his fingers, looking as he stood 
there like the ruling spirit of the cheery circle; and 
just outside the circle, though inside the door, he— 
Genesee—stood alone, the fact accented sharply to 
him by Miss Fred’s significant movement; and with 
the remembrance of the fact came the quick, ever-ready 


266 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


spirit of bravado, and his head was held a trifle higher 
as he smiled down at her in apparent unconcern. 

“If it is going to make Aunty Luce feel more com¬ 
fortable to have company, Pm ready to own up that 
my hair raised the hat off my head at first sight of 
her—ain’t quite settled into place yet;’’ and he ran 
his fingers through the mass of thick dark hair. “How’s 
that, Aunty?” 

“Umph! ” she grunted, crouching closer to the wall, 
and watching him distrustfully from the extreme corner 
of her eye. 

“Have you ever been scared so bad you couldn’t yell, 
Aunty?” he asked, with a bland disregard of the fact 
that she was just then in danger of roasting herself 
on the hearth for the purpose of evading him. 
“No? That’s the way you fixed me a little while 
back, sure enough. I was scared too bad to run, or 
they never would have caught me.” 

The only intelligible answer heard from her was: 
“Go ’long, you! " 

But he did not “go ’long.” On the contrary, he 
wheeled about in Tillie’s chair, and settled himself 
as if that corner was especially attractive, and he 
intended spending the evening in it—a suggestion 
that was a decided surprise to all, even to Rachel, 
remembering his late conservatism. 

Stuart was the only one who realized that it was per¬ 
haps a method of proving by practical demonstration 
the truth of his statement that he was a Pariah among 
the class who received the more refined character with 
every welcome. It was a queer thing for a man to 
court slights, but once inside the door, his total uncon¬ 
cern of that which had been a galling mortification to 
him was a pretty fair proof of Stuart’s theory. He 



THE TELLING OF A STORY, 


267 


talked Indian wars to Hardy, and Indian love-songs to 
Hardy’s wife. He coolly turned his attention to Lieu¬ 
tenant Murray, with whom his acquaintance was the 
slightest, and from the Lieutenant to Miss Fred, who 
was amused and interested in what was, to her, a new 
phase of a “squaw man;” and her delight was none 
the less keen because of the ineffectual attempts to 
in any way suppress this very irregular specimen, 
whose easy familiarity was as silencing as his gruff 
curtness had been the day they met him first. 

Beyond an occasional remark, his notice was in no 
way directed to Rachel—in fact, he seemed to avoid 
looking at her. His attention was much more 
interested in the other two ladies, who by degrees 
dropped into a cordiality on a par with that of Aunty 
Luce; and he promptly took advantage of it by invit¬ 
ing Miss Fred to go riding with him in the morning. 

The man’s impudence and really handsome face gave 
Fred a wicked desire to accept, and horrify the Lieu¬ 
tenant and Tillie; but one glance at that little matron 
told her it would not do. 

“I have an engagement to ride to-morrow,” she said 
rather hurriedly, “else—” 

“Else I should be your cavalier,” he laughed. “Ah, 
well, there are more days coming. I can wait.” 

A dead silence followed, in which Rachel caught 
the glance Genesee turned on Stuart—a smile so mirth¬ 
less and with so much of bitter irony in it that it 
told her plainly as words that the farce they had sat 
through was understood by those two men, if no oth¬ 
ers; and, puzzled and eager to break the awkward 
silence, she tried to end it by stepping into the 
breach. 

“You have totally forgotten the story you were to 


268 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


tell US,” she said, pointing to the sheets of manu¬ 
script in Stuart’s hand; “if we are to have it to-night, 
why not begin?” 

“Certainly; the story, by all means,” echoed Fred. 
“We had it scared out of our heads, I guess, but our 
nerves are equal to it now. Are you fond of stories, 
Mr.—Mr. Genesee?” 

“Uncommon.” 

“Well, Mr. Stuart was about to read us one just as 
you came in; one he wrote since he came up in these 
wilds—at the Fort, didn’t you say, Mr. Stuart? You 
know,” she added, turning again to Genesee—'“you 
know Mr. Stuart is a writer—a romancer.” 

“Yes, ” he answered slowly, looking at the subject of 
their discourse as if examining something rare and 
curious; “I should reckon—he—might be.” 

The contempt in the tone sent the hot blood to 
Stuart’s face, his eyes glittering as ominously as 
Genesee’s own would in anger. An instant their gaze 
met in challenge and retort, and then the sheets of 
paper were laid deliberately aside. 

“I believe, after all, I will read you something else, ” 
he said, reaching for one of the rolls of manuscript on 
the table; “that is, with your permission. It is not 
a finished story, only the prologue. I wrote it in 
the South, and thought I might find material for 
the completion of it up here; perhaps I may.” 

“Let us have that, by all means,” urged Tillie. 
“What do you call it?” 

“I, had not thought of a title, as the story was 
scarcely written with the idea of publication. The 
theme, however, which is pretty fairly expressed in 
the quotation at the beginning, may suggest a title. 
I will leave that to my audience.” 


THE TELLING OF A STORY. 


269 


"And we will all put on our thinking-caps and 
study up a title while you tell the story, and when it 
is ended, see which has the best one to offer. It will 
be a new sort of game with which to test our imagin¬ 
ations. Go on. What is the quotation, to begin 
with?” 

And to the surprise of the listeners, he read that old 
command from Deuteronomy, written of brother to 
brother: 

“ Thou shall not see thy brother’s ox or. his sheep go astray; thou 
shall in any case bring them again unto thy brother. 

“And with all lost things of thy brother’s, which he hath lost 
and thou hast found, shall thou do likewise. 

“ In any case thou shall deliver him the pledge again when the sun 
goeth down. ” 

Stuart ceased after those lines, looking up for 
comment, and seeing enough in the man’s face oppo¬ 
site him. 

"Oh, go on,” said Rachel. ‘‘Never mind about the 
suggestions in that heading—it is full of them; but 
give us the story.” 

“It is only the prologue to a story,” he reminded 
her; and with no further comment began the manu¬ 
script. 

Its opening was that saddest of all things to the 
living—a death-bed—and that most binding of all 
vows—a promise given to the dying. 

There was the picture drawn of a fragile, fair little 
lady, holding in her chilling fingers the destiny of the 
lives she was about to leave behind—young lives— 
one a sobbing, wondering girl of ten, and two boys; 
the oldest perhaps eighteen, an uncouth, strong-faced 
youth, who clasped hands with another boy several 
years younger, but so fair that few would think them 
brothers, and only the most youthful would ever have 


270 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


been credited as the child of the little woman who 
looked so like a white lily. 

But the other was the eldest son—an Esau, how¬ 
ever, who was favorite with neither father nor mother; 
with no one, in fact, who had ever known the sunny 
face and nature of the most youthful—an impulsive, 
loving disposition that only shone the brighter by 
contrast with the darker-faced, undemonstrative one 
whom even his mother never understood. 

And the shadow of that misunderstanding was with 
them even at the death-bed, where the Jacob sobbed 
out his grief in passionate protests against the power 
that would rob him, and the Esau stood like a 
statue to receive her commands. Back of them was 
the father, smothering his own grief and consoling his 
favorite, when he could, and the one witness to the 
seal that was set on the three young lives. 

Her words were not many—she was so weak—but 
she motioned to the girl beside the bed. "I leave her 
to you, ” she said, looking at them both, but the eyes, 
true to the feeling back of them, wandered to the 
fairer face and rested there. “The old place will belong 
to you two ere many years—your father will perhaps 
come after me;” and she glanced lovingly toward the 
man whom all the world but herself had found cold 
and hard in nature. “I promised long ago—when her 
mother died—that she should always have a home, and 
now I have to leave the trust to you, my sons. ” 

“We will keep it,” said the steady voice of Esau, 
as he sat Like an automaton watching her slowly drift¬ 
ing from them; while Jacob, on his knees, with his 
arms about her, was murmuring tenderly, as to a child, 
that all should be as she wished—her trust was to be 
theirs always. 


THE TELLING OF A STORY. 


271 


“And if either of you should fail or forget, the other 
must take the care on his own shoulders. Promise me 
that, too, because—” 

The words died away in a whisper, but her eyes 
turned toward the Esau. He knew too bitterly what 
it meant. Though only a boy, he was a wild one— 
people said a bad one. His father had pronounced 
him the only one of their name who was not a gentle^ 
man. He gambled and he drank; his home seemed 
the stables, his companions, fast horses and their fast 
masters; and in the eyes of his mother he read, as 
never before, the effect that life had produced. His 
own mother did not dare trust the black sheep of 
the family, even though he promisee} at her death¬ 
bed. 

A wild, half-murderous hate arose in him at the 
knowledge—abate against his elegant, correctly man¬ 
nered father, whose cold condemnation had long ago 
barred him out from his mother’s sympathy, until even 
at her death-bed he felt himself a stranger—his little 
mother—and he had worshiped her as the faithful do 
their saints, and like them, afar off. 

But even the hate against his father was driven 
back at the sight of the wistful face, and the look that 
comes to eyes but once. 

“We promise—I promise that, so help me God!” 
he said earnestly, and then bent forward for the first 
time, his voice breaking as he spoke. “Mother! 
mother! say just once that you trust—that you believe 
in me!” 

Her gaze was still on his face; it was growing 
difficult to move the eyes at will, and the very inten¬ 
sity of his own feelings may have held her there. 
Her eyes widened ever so little, as if at some 


2/2 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


revelation born to her by that magnetism, and then— 
“My boy, I trust—” 

The words again died in a whisper; and raising his 
head with a long breath of relief, he saw his father 
drop on his knees by the younger son. Their arms 
were about each other and about her. A few 
broken, disjointed whispers; a last smile upward, 
beyond them; a soft, sighing little breath, after 
which there was no other, and then the voice of the 
boy, irrepressible in his grief, as his love, broke forth 
in passionate despair, and was soothed by his father, 
who led him sobbing and rebellious from the bed 
side—both in their sorrow forgetting that third 
member of the family, who sat so stoically through 
it all, until the little girl, their joint trust, half-blind 
with her own tears, saw him there so still and as pathet¬ 
ically alone as the chilling clay beside him. Trying 
to say some comforting words, she spoke to him, but 
received no answer. She had always been rather 
afraid of this black sheep—he was so morose about 
the house, and made no one love him except the 
horses; but the scene just past drew her to him for 
once without dread. 

“ferother,” she whispered, calling him by the name 
his mother had left her; “dear brother, don’t you sit 
there like that;” and a vague terror came to her as he 
made no sign. “You—you frighten me.” 

She slipped her hand about his neck with a child’s 
caressing sympathy, and then a wild scream brought 
the people hurrying into the room. 

“He is dead!” she cried, as she dropped beside 
him; “sitting there cold as stone, and we thought he 
didn’t care! And he is dead—dead!” 

But he' was not dead—the physician soon assured 


THE TELLING OF A STORY. 


273 


them of that. It was only a cataleptic fit. The 
emotion that had melted the one brother to tears had 
frozen the other into the closest semblance to stone 
that life can reach, and still be life. 

The silence was thrilling as Stuart’s voice ceased, 
and he stooped for the other pages laid by his chair. 

A feeling that the story on paper could never 
convey was brought to every listener by the some¬ 
thing in his voice that was not tears, but suggested 
the emotion back of tears. They had always 
acknowledged the magnetism of the man, but felt 
that he was excelling himself in this instance. Til- 
lie and Fred were silently crying. Rachel was star¬ 
ing very steadily ahead of her, too steadily to notice 
that the hand laid on Genesee’s revolver at the com¬ 
mencement of the story had gradually relaxed and 
dropped listless beside him. All the strength in his 
body seemed to creep into his eyes as he watched 
Stuart, trusting as much to his eyes as his ears for 
the complete comprehension of the object in or back 
of that story. In the short pause the author, with 
one sweeping glance, read his advantage—that he 
was holding in the bonds of sympathy this man whom 
he could never conquer through an impersonal influ¬ 
ence. The knowledge was a ten-fold inspiration— 
the point to be gained was so great to him; and 
with his voice thrilling them all with its intensity, 
he read on and on. 

The story? Its finish was the beginning of this 
one; but it was told with a spirit that cannot be trans¬ 
mitted by ink and paper, for the teller depended lit¬ 
tle on his written copy. He knew it by heart—knew 
all the tenderness of a love-story in it that was care¬ 
less of the future as the butterflies that coquette on a 
18 


274 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


summer’s day, passing and repassing with a mere touch 
of wings, a challenge to a kiss, and then darting 
hither and yon in the chase that grows laughing and 
eager, until each flash of white wings in the sun bears 
them high above the heads of their comrades, as the 
divine passion raises all its votaries above the com¬ 
monplace. Close and closer they are drawn by the 
spirit that lifts them into a new life; high and 
higher, until against the blue sky there is a final flash 
of white wings. It is the wedding by a kiss, and the 
coquettings are over—the sky closes in. They are a 
world of their own. 

Such a love-story of summer was told by him in 
the allegory of the butterflies; but the young heart 
throbbing through it was that of the woman-child who 
had wept while the two brothers had clasped hands 
and accepted her as the trust of the dying; and her 
joyous teacher of love had been the fair-haired, fine¬ 
faced boy whose grief had been so great and whose 
promises so fervent. It is a very old story, but an 
ever-pathetic one—that tragedy of life; and this one, 
without thought of sin, with only a fatal fondness on 
her part, a fatal desire for being loved on his, and a 
season’s farewell to be uttered, of which they could 
speak no word—the emotions that have led to more 
than one tragedy of^’soul. And one of the butterflies 
in this one flitted for many days through the flowers of 
her garden, shy, yet happy, whispering over and over, 
“His wife, his wife! “ while, traveling southward, the 
other felt a passion of remorse in his heart, and 
resolved on multitudinous plans for the following of a 
perfection of life for the future. 

All this he told—too delicately to give offense, yet 
too unsparingly not to show that the evil wrought in a 


THE TELLING OF A STORY. 


275 


moment of idle pastime, of joyous carelessness, is as 
fatal in its results as the most deliberate act of pre¬ 
conceived wickedness. 

And back of the lives and loves of those two, with 
their emotional impulses and joyous union of untutored 
hearts, there arose, unloved and seemingly unloving, 
the quiet, watchful figure of the Esau. 

Looking at his life from a distance, and perhaps 
through eyes of remorse, the writer had idealized that 
one character, while he had only photographed the oth¬ 
ers; had studied out the deeds back of every decided 
action, and discovered, or thought he did, that it was 
the lack of sympathy in his home-life had made a sort 
of human porcupine of him, and none had guessed that, 
back of the keen darts, there beat a pulse hungry for 
words such as he begged from his mother at the last— 
and receiving, was ready to sacrifice every hope of his, 
present or future, that he might prove himself worthy 
the trust she had granted him, though'so late. 

Something in the final ignoring of self and the tak¬ 
ing on his own shoulders the responsibilities of those 
two whom his mother had loved—something in all 
that, made him appear a character of heroic propor¬ 
tions, viewed from Stuart’s point of view. He walked 
through those pages as a live thing, the feeling in 
the author’s voice testifying to his own earnestness 
in the portrayal—an earnestness that seemed to gain 
strength as he went along, and held his listeners with 
that convincing power until the abrupt close of the 
scene between those two men in the old New Orleans 
house. 

Everyone felt vaguely surprised and disturbed 
when he finished— it was all so totally unlike Stuart’s 
stories with which he had entertained them before. 


276 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


They were unprepared for the emotions provoked; 
and there was in it, and in the reading; a suggestion 
of something beyond all that was told. 

The silence was so long that Stuart himself was 
the first to lift his eyes to those opposite, and tried to 
say carelessly: 

“Well?” 

His face was pale, but not more so than that of 
Genesee, who, surprised in that intent gaze, tried to 
meet his eyes steadily, but failed, faltered, wavered, 
and finally turned, as if seeking in some way his 
former assurance, to Rachel. And what he saw there 
was the reaching out of her hand until it touched 
Stuart’s shoulder with a gesture of approving com¬ 
radeship. 

“Good!” she said tersely; “don’t ever again talk of 
writing for pastime—the character of that one man is 
enough to be proud of.” 

“But there are two men,” said Fred, finding her 
voice again, with a sense of relief; “which one do you 
mean? ” 

“No,” contradicted Rachel, with sharp decision; 
“I can see only one—the Esau.” 

Stuart shrank a little under her hand, not even 
thanking her for the words of praise; and, to her 
surprise, it was Genesee who answered her, his eyes 
steady enough, except when looking at the author of 
the story. 

“Don’t be too quick about playing judge,” he sug¬ 
gested; and the words took her back like a flash to 
that other time when he had given her the same curt 
advice. “May be that boy had some good points that 
ain’t put down there. Maybe he might have had 
plans about doing the square thing, and something 


THE TELLING OF A STORY. 


277 


Upset them; or—or he might have got tangled up in a 
lariat he wasn’t looking for. It’s just natural bad 
luck some men have of getting tangled up like that; 
and may be he—this fellow—” 

Fred broke out laughing at his reasoning for the 
defense. 

“Why, Mr. Genesee,” she said gleefully, “an 
audience of you would be an inspiration to an 
author or actor; you are talking about the man 
as if he was a flesh and blood specimen, instead of 
belonging to Mr. Stuart’s imagination.” 

“Yes, I reckon you’re right. Miss,” he said, rising to 
his feet, with a queer, half-apologetic smile; “you see. 
I’m not used to hearing folks read—romances.” But 
the insolent sarcasm with which he had spoken of the 
word at first was gone. 

The others had all regained their tongues, or the 
use of them; and comment and praise was given 
the author—not much notice taken of Genesee’s 
opinion and protest. His theories of the character 
might be natural ones; but his own likelihood for 
entanglements, to judge by his reputation, was apt to 
prejudice him, rendering him unduly charitable 
toward any other fellow who was unlucky. 

“My only objection to it,” said Tillie, “is that 
there is not enough of it. It seems unfinished.” 

“Well, he warned us in the beginning that it was 
only a prologue,” reminded her husband; “but there is 
a good deal in it, too, for only a prologue—a good deal. ” 

“For my part,” remarked the Lieutenant, “I don’t 
think I would want anything added to it. Just as it 
stands, it proves the characters of the two men. If it 
was carried further, it might gain nothing, and leave 
nothing for one’s imagination." 


278 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“I had not thought of that, ” said Stuart; “in fact, it 
was only written to help myself in analyzing two 
characters I had in my head, and could not get rid of 
until I put them on paper. Authors are haunted by 
such ghosts sometimes. It is Miss Fred’s fault that 
I resurrected this one to-night—she thrust on me the 
accidental remembrance.” 

“There are mighty few accidents in the world, ” was 
Genesee’s concise statement, as he pulled on his 
heavy buckskin gloves. “Fm about to cut for camp. 
Going?” This to the Lieutenant. 

After that laconic remark on accidents, no further 
word or notice was exchanged between Stuart and Gene¬ 
see; but it was easily seen that the story read had 
smoothed out several wrinkles of threatened discord 
and discontent. It had at least tamed the spirit of the 
scout, and left him more the man Rachel knew in him. 
Her impatience at his manner early in the evening dis¬ 
appeared as he showed improvement; and just before 
they left, she crossed over to him, asking something of 
the snows on the Scot Mountain trail, his eyes warming 
at the directness of her speech and movement, showing 
to any who cared to notice that she spoke to him as 
to a friend; but his glance turned instinctively from her 
to Stuart. He remembered watching them that day as 
they rode from camp. 

“But what of Davy?” she repeated; “have you heard 
any word of him?” 

“No, and I’m ashamed to say it,” he acknowledged; 
“I haven’t been to see him at all since I got back. I’ve 
had a lot of things in my head to keep track of, and 
didn’t even send. I’ll do it, though, in a day or so— 
or else go myself.” 

“I’m afraid he may be sick. If the snow is not 


THE TELLING OF A STORY. 


279 


bad, it’s a wonder he has not been down. I believe 
1 will go.” 

“I don’t like you to go over those trails alone,” he 
said in a lower tone; “not just now, at any rate.” 

“Why not now? ”* 

“Well, you know these Indian troubles may bring 
queer cattle into the country. The Kootenai tribe would 
rather take care of you than do you harm; but—well, I 
reckon you had better keep to the ranch.” 

‘‘And you don’t reckon you can trust me to tell me 
why?” she said in a challenging way. 

‘‘It mightn’t do any good. I don’t know, you see, 
that it is really dangerous, only I’d rather you’d keep 
on the safe side; and—and—don’t say I can’t trust you. 
I’d trust you with my life—yes, more than that, if I 
had itJ” 

His voice was not heard by the others, who were 
laughing and chatting, it was so low; but its inten¬ 
sity made her step back, looking up at him. 

‘‘Don’t look as if I fright you,” he said quickly; 
"I didn’t come in here for that. You shouldn’t have 
made me come, anyway—I belong to the outside; 
coming in only helps me remember it.” 

‘‘So that was what put you in such a humor. I 
thought it was Stuart.” 

“You did?” 

“Yes; I know you don’t like him, but—I think you 
are prejudiced.” 

“Oh, you do?” And she saw the same inscrutable 
smile on his face that she had noticed when he 
looked at Stuart. 

“Xhere—there,” she laughed, throwing up her hand 
as if to check him, “don’t tell me again that I am too 
anxious to judge people; but he is a good fellow.” 


28 o 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


"And you are a good girl,” he said warmly, look¬ 
ing down at her with so much feeling in his face 
that Stuart, glancing, toward them, was startled into 
strange conjectures at the revelation in it. It was 
the first time he had ever seen them talking together. 
“And you’re a plucky girl, too,” added Genesee, 
"else you wouldn’t stand here talking to me before 
everyone. I’ll remember it always of you. Tillikum, 
good-night. ” 


PART FOURTH. 


ONE SQUAW MAN. 


CHAPTER I. 

LAMONTI. 

The next morning awoke with the balmy air of spring 
following the sunrise over the snow—a fair, soft day, 
with treachery back of its smiles; for along in the 
afternoon the sky gathered in gray drifts, and the 
weather-wise prophesied a big snow-fall. 

All the morning Genesee wrote. One page after 
another was torn up, and it was the middle of the 
afternoon before he finally finished the work to his 
satisfaction, did it up in a flat, square package, and 
having sealed it securely, called Kalitan. 

“You take this to the express office at the station,” 
he said; “get a paper for it—receipt; then go to Hol¬ 
land’s—to the bank store; give them this,” and he 
handed a slip of written paper. “If they give you 
letter, keep it careful—so,” and he took from his shirt- 
pocket a rubber case the size of an ordinary envelope. 
Evidently Kalitan had carried it before, for he opened 
a rather intricate clasp and slipped the bit of paper 
into it. 

“All good—not get wet,” he said, picking up the 
larger package. “The Arrow fly down; come back how 
soon?” 

“Send this, ” pointing to the package, “the first thing 
in the morning; then wait until night for the stage 

281 



282 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


from Pacific that brings the mail—maybe if road is bad 
it will not come till next morning.” 

‘‘Kalitan wait?” 

‘‘Yes, wait till the stage comes, then ask for letter, 
and keep your eyes open; watch for bad whites. Kla- 
howyaf” 

Watching Kalitan start off with that package, he 
drew a long breath of relief, like a man who had laid 
down some burden; and leaving the avenue and the 
camp behind, he struck out over the trail toward 
Hardy’s, not even stopping to saddle a horse. He 
was going to have a "wau-wau" with Mowitza. 

He had barely entered the stable door when Tillie 
came across the yard, with a shawl thrown over her 
head and looking disturbed. 

‘‘Oh, is it you, Mr. Genesee?” she said, with a little 
sigh of disappointment; ‘‘I thought it was Hen or some 
of the others come back. Did you meet them?” 

‘‘Yes; going up the west valley after stock.” 

‘‘The west valley! Then they won’t get back before 
dark, and I—I don’t know what to do! ” and the worried 
look reached utter despair as she spoke. 

‘‘What’s up? I can ride after them if you say so.” 

‘‘I don’t know what to say. I should have told Hen 
at noon; but I knew it would put him out of patience 
with Rachel, and I trusted to her getting back all 
right; but now, if the snow sets in quick, and it threat¬ 
ens to, she may get lost, and I—” 

: ‘‘Where is she?” 

‘‘Gone to Scot’s Mountain.” 

An energetic expletive broke from his lips, un¬ 
checked even by the presence of the little woman who 
had seemed a sort of Madonna to him in the days a 
year old. And the Madonna did not look much 


LAMONTI. 


283 


shocked. She had an idea that the occasion was a 
warrant for condemnation, and she felt rather guilty 
herself. 

“One of that Kootenai tribe came here this morn¬ 
ing, and after jabbering Chinook with him, she 
told me Davy MacDougall was sick, and she was going 
to ride up there. Hen was out, and she wouldnH 
listen to Miss Fred and myself—just told us to keep 
quiet and not tell him where she was, and that she 
would get back for supper; so we haven’t said a 
word; and now the snow is coming, she may get 
lost. ’’ 

Tillie was almost in tears; it was easy to see she was 
terribly frightened, and very remorseful for keeping 
RachePs command to say nothing to Hardy. 

“Did that Indian go with her?” 

“No; and she started him back first, up over that 
hill, to be sure he would not go over to the camp. I 
can’t see what her idea was for that." 

Genesee could—it was to prevent him from knowing 
she was going up into the hills despite his caution. 

“There is not a man left on the place, except Jim,” 
continued Tillie, “or I would send them after her. 
But Jim does not know the short-cut trail that I’ve 
heard Rachel speak of, and he might miss her in the 
hills; and—oh, dear! oh, dear!” 

Genesee reached to the wooden peg where his sad¬ 
dle hung, and threw it across Mov/itza’s back. 

In a moment Tillie understood what it meant, and 
felt that, capable as he might be, he was not the person 
she should send as guardian for a young girl. To be 
sure, he had once before filled that position, and 
brought her in safety; but that was before his real 
character was known. 


284 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


Til lie thought of what the rest would say, of what 
Stuart would think—for she had already bracketed 
Rachel and Stuart in her match-making calendar. 
And she was between several fires of anxiety and 
indecision, as she noted the quick buckling of straps, 
and the appropriation of two blankets from the hang¬ 
ing shelf above them. 

“Are you—can you get someone to go for me— 
from the camp?” she asked hurriedly. He turned 
and looked at her with a smile in his eyes. 

“I reckon so,” he answered briefly; and then, seeing 
her face flushed and embarrassed, the smile died out as 
he felt what her thoughts were. “Who do you want?” 
he added, leading Mowitza out and standing beside 
her, ready to mount. 

She did not even look up. She felt exactly as she 
had when she told Hen that she knew she was right, 
and yet felt ashamed of herself. 

“I thought if you could spare Kalitan—” she hesi¬ 
tated. “She knows him, and he has been with her so 
often up there, no one else would know so well where 
to look for her—that is, if you could spare him,” 
she added helplessly. 

“The chances are that I can,” he said in a business¬ 
like way; “and if I was you I’d just keep quiet about 
the trip, or else tell them she has an Indian guide— 
and she will have. Can you give me a bottle of 
brandy and some biscuits?” 

She ran into the house, and came back with them at 
once. He was mounted and awaiting her. 

“Kalitan has left the camp—gone over that hill;” 
and he motioned rather vaguely toward the ridge 
across the valley. “ITl just ride over and start 
him from there, so he won’t need to go back to camp 


LAMONTI. 285 

for rations. Don’t you worry; just keep quiet, and 
she’ll come back all right with Kalitan.” 

He turned without further words, and rode away 
through the soft flakes of snow that were already 
beginning to fall. He did not even say a good-bye; 
and Tillie, hedged in by her convictions and her 
anxiety, let him go without even a word of thanks. 

“I simply did not dare to say ‘thank you’ to him,” 
she thought, as he disappeared. And then she went 
into the house and eased Fred’s heart and her own 
conscience with the statement that Kalitan, the best 
guide Rachel could have, had gone to meet her. 
She made no mention of the objectionable character 
who had sent Kalitan. 

By the time of sunset, Scot’s Mountain was 
smothered in the white cloud that had closed over it 
so suddenly, and the ^now was still falling straight 
down, and so steadily that one could not retrace steps 
and find tracks ten minutes after they were made. 
Through the banked-up masses a white-coated, 
unrecognizable individual plowed his way to Mac- 
Dougail’s door, and without ceremony opened it and 
floundered in, carrying with him what looked enough 
snow to drown a man; but his eyes were clear of it, 
and a glance told him the cabin had but one occu¬ 
pant. 

“When did she leave?” was the salutation Mac- 
Dougall received, after a separation of six weeks. 

“Why, Jack, my lad!” 

“Yes, that’s who it is, and little time to talk. Has 
she been here?” 

“The lass—Rachel? She has that—a sight for sore 
eyes—and set all things neat and tidy for me in no 
time; ” and he waved his hand toward the clean-swept 


286 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


hearth, and the table with clean dishes, and a basket 
with a loaf of new bread showing through. “But she 
did na stay long wi’ me. The clouds were cornin’ up 
heavy, she said, and she must get home before the 
snow fell; an’ it snows now?” 

“Well, rather. Can’t you see out?” 

“I doubt na I’ve had a nap since she left; “ and the 
old man raised himself stiffly from the bunk. “I got 
none the night, for the sore pain o’ my back, but the 
lass helped me. She’s a rare helpful one.” 

“Which trail did she take?” asked Genesee impa¬ 
tiently. 

He saw the old man was not able to help him look 
for her, and did not want to alarm him; but to stand 
listening to comments when every minute was deepen¬ 
ing the snow, and the darkness—well, it was a test to the 
man waiting. 

“I canna say for sure, but she spoke o’ the trail 
through the Maples being the quickest way home; 
likely she took it.” 

Genesee turned to the door with a gesture of despair. 
He had come that way and seen no sign of her; but 
the trail wound above gulches where a misstep was 
fatal, and where a horse and rider could be buried in 
the depths that day and leave no trace. 

At the door he stopped and glanced at Davy Mac- 
Dougall, and then about the cabin. 

“Are you fixed all right here in case of being snowed 
in?” he asked. 

“I am that—for four weeks, if need be ; but does 
it look like that out?” 

“Pretty much. Good-bye, Davy; ” and he walked 
back and held out his hand to the old man, who looked 
at him wonderingly. Though their friendship was 


LAMONTI, 287 

earnest, they were never demonstrative, and Genesee 
usually left with a careless klahowya! 

"Why, lad—” 

"Pm going to look for her, Davy. If I find her, 
you’ll hear of it; if I don’t, tell the cursed fools at 
the ranch that I—that I sent a guide who would give his 
life for her. Good-bye, old fellow—good-bye.” 

Down over the mountain he w'ent, leading Mowitza, 
and breaking the path ahead of her—slow, slow work. 
At that rate of travel, it would be morning before he 
could reach the ranch; and he must find her first. 

He found he could have made more speed with snow- 
shoes and without Mowitza—the snow was banking 
up so terribly. The valley was almost reached when 
a queer sound came to him through the thick veil of 
white that had turned gray with coming night. 

Mowitza heard it, too, for she threw up her head 
and answered it with a long whinny, even before her 
master had decided what the noise was; but it came 
again, and then he had no doubt it was the call of a 
horse, and it was somewhere on the hill above 
him. 

He fastened Mowitza to a tree, and started up over 
the way he had come, stopping now and then to call, 
but hearing no answer—not even froni the horse, that 
suggested some phantom-like steed that had passed 
in the white storm. 

Suddenly, close to him, he heard a sound much more 
human—a whistle; and in a moment he plunged in 
that direction, and almost stumbled over a form hud¬ 
dled against a fallen tree. He could not see her face. 
He did not need to. She was in his arms, and she 
was alive. That was enough. But she lay strangely 
still for a live woman, and he felt in his pocket for 


288 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


that whisky-flask; a little of the fiery liquor strangled 
her, but aroused her entirely. 

‘‘Jack? ” 

“Yes.” 

“I knew if I called long enough you would come; 
but I can only whisper now. You came just in time.” 

“How long have you been here?” 

“Oh, hours, I think. I started for the gulch trail, 
and couldn’t make it with snow on the ground. Then 
I tried for the other trail, but got lost in the snow— 
couldn’t even find the cabin. Help me up, will you? 
I guess Pm all right now.” 

But she was not, quite, for she staggered wofully; 
and he caught her quickly to him and held her with 
one arm, while he fumbled for some matches with 
the other. 

“You’re a healthy-looking specimen,” was the rather 
depreciating verdict he gave at sight of the white, 
tired face. She smiled from the pillow of his shoul¬ 
der, but did not open her eyes; then the match flick¬ 
ered and went out, and he could see her no more. 

“Why didn’t you stay at home, as I told you to?” 

“Didn’t want to.” 

“Don’t you know Pm likely to catch my death of 
cold tramping here after you?” 

“No,” with an intonation that sounded rather heart¬ 
less; “you never catch cold.” 

The fact that she had not lost her old spirit, if she 
had her voice, was a great point in her favor, and he 
had a full appreciation of it. She was tired out, and 
hoarse, but still had pluck enough to attempt the trip 
to the ranch. 

“We’ve got to make it,“she decided, when the sub¬ 
ject was broached; “we can make it to-night as well 


LAMONTl. 289 

as to-morrow, if you know the trail. Did you say you 
had some biscuits? Well, I’m hungry.” 

“You generally are,” he remarked, with a dryness in 
no way related to the delight with which he got the 
biscuits for her and insisted on her swallowing some 
more of the whisky. “Are you cold?” 

“No—not a bit; and that seems funny, too. If it 
hadn’t been such a soft,warm snow, I would have been 
frozen.” 

He left her and went to find the mare, which he did 
without much trouble; and in leading her back over 
the little plateau he was struck with a sense of being 
on familiar ground. It was such a tiny little shelf jut¬ 
ting out from the mountain. 

Swathed in snow as it was, and with the darkness 
above it, he felt so confident that he walked straight 
out to where the edge should be if he was right. 
Yes, there was the sudden shelving that left the lit¬ 
tle plot inaccessible from one side. 

“Do you know where we are, my girl?” he asked as 
he rejoined her. 

“Somewhere on Scot's Mountain,” she hazarded; the 
possessive term used by him had a way of depriving 
her of decided opinions. 

“You’re just about the same place where you watched 
the sun come up once—may be you remember?” 

“Yes.” 

He had helped her up. They stood there silent 
what seemed a long time; then he spoke: 

“I’ve come here often since that time. It’s been a 
sort of a church—one that no one likely ever set foot in 
but you and me.” He paused as if in hesitation; then 
continued: “I’ve wished often I could see you here 

again in the same place, just because I got so fond of it; 

^9 


290 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


and I don’t know what you think of it, but this little 
bit of the mountain has something witched in it for 
me. I felt in the dark when my feet touched it, and I 
have a fancy, after it^s all over, to be brought up here 
and laid where we stood that morning.” 

“Jack,’’and her other hand was reached impulsively 
to his, ‘‘what^s the matter—what makes you speak like 
that now?” 

“I don’t know. The idea came strong to me back 
there, and I felt as if you—you—were the only one I 
could tell it to, for you know nearly all now—all the 
bad in me, too; yet you’ve never been the girl to draw 
away or keep back your hand if you felt I needed it. 
Ah, my girl, you are one in a thousand! ” 

He was speaking in the calmest, most dispassionate 
way, as if it was quite a usual thing to indulge in 
dissertations of this sort, with the snow slowly cover¬ 
ing them. Perhaps he was right in thinking the place 
witched. 

‘‘You’ve been a good friend to me,” he continued, 
‘‘whether I was near or far—MacDougall told me 
things that proved it; and if my time should come 
quick, as many a man’s has in the Indian country, I 
believe you would see I was brought here, where I 
want to be.” 

‘‘You may be sure of it,” she said earnestly; ‘‘but I 
don’t like to hear you talk like that—it isn’t like you. 
You give me a queer, uncanny feeling. I can’t see 
you, and I am not sure it is Jack —nika tillikum —I 
am talking to at all. If you keep' it up, you will have 
me nervous.” 

He held her hand and drew it up to his throat, press¬ 
ing his chin against the fingers with a movement 
that was as caressive as a kiss. 


LAMONTI. 


291 


“Don’t you be afraid,” he said gently; “you are 
afraid of nothing else, and you must never be of me. 
Come, come, my girl, if we’re to go, we’d better be 
getting a move on.” 

The prosaic suggestion seemed an interruption of his 
own tendencies, that were not prosaic. The girl slipped 
her fingers gently but decidedly from their resting- 
place so near his lips, and laid her one hand on his 
arm. 

“Yes, we must be going, or”— and he knew she was 
smiling, though the darkness hid her—“or it will look 
as if there are two witched folks in our chapel—our 
white chapel—to-night. I’m glad we happened here, 
since the thought is any comfort to you; but I hope it 
will be many a day before you are brought here, instead 
of bringing yourself.” 

He took her hand, and through the white masses 
turned their faces down the mountain. The mare fol¬ 
lowed meekly after. The stimulant of bread and 
whisky— and more, the coming of this man, of whom 
she was so stubbornly confident— had acted as a tonic 
to Rachel, and she struggled through bravely, accept¬ 
ing little of help, and had not once asked how he came 
to be there instead of the ranchmen. 

Perhaps it was because of their past association, 
and that one night together when he had carried her 
in his arms; but whatever he was to the other peo¬ 
ple, he had always seemed to her a sort of guardian 
of the hills and all lost things. 

She did not think of his presence there nearly so much 
as she did of those ideas of his that seemed “uncanny. ” 
He, such a bulwark of physical strength, to speak like 
that of a grave-site! It added one more to the con¬ 
tradictions she had seen in him. 


292 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


Several things were in her mind to say to him, and 
not all of them pleasant. She had heard a little of 
the ideas current as to his Indian sympathies, and 
the doubt with which he was regarded in camp; and, 
while she defended him, she many times felt vexed 
that he cared so little about defending himself. 
And with the memory of the night before, and femi¬ 
nine comments at the ranch after he had gone, she 
made an attempt to storm his stubbornness during a 
short breathing-spell when they rested against the 
great bole of a tree. 

“Genesee, why don’t you let the other folks at the 
ranch, or the camp, know you as I do? ’’ was the first 
break, at which he laughed shortly. 

“They may know me the best of the two. ” 

“But they don’t; I know they don’t, you know they 
don’t. ” 

“Speak for yourself,’’ he suggested; “I’m not sure 
either way, and when a man can’t bet on himself, it 
ain’t fair to expect his friends to. You’ve been the 
only one of them all to pin faith to me, with not a thing 
to prove that you had reason for it; it’s just out-and- 
out faith, nothing else. What they think don’t 
count, nor what I’ve been; but if ever I get where 
I can talk to you, you’ll know, may be, how much a 
woman’s faith can help a man when he’s down. But 
don’t you bother your head over what they think. If 
I’m any good, they’ll know it sometime; if I ain’t, 
you’ll know that, too. That’s enough said, isn’t it? 
And we’d better break away from here; we’re about 
the foot of the mountain, I reckon. ’’ 

And then he took possession of her hand again, and 
led her on in the night; and she felt that her 
attempt had been a failure, except that it showed how 


LAMONTI. 


293 


closely he held her regard, and she was too human not 
to be moved by the knowledge. Yes, he was very 
improper, as much so as most men, only it had hap¬ 
pened to be in a way that was shocking to tenderfeet 
lucky enough to have- families and homes as safe¬ 
guards against evil. He was very disreputable, and, 
socially, a great gulf would be marked between them 
by their friends. But in the hills, where the universe 
dwindled to earth, sky, and two souls, they were but 
man and woman; and all the puzzling things about 
him that were blameful things melted away, as the 
snow that fell on their faces. She felt his strong 
presence as a guard about her, and without doubt or 
hesitation she kept pace beside him. 

Once in the valley, she mounted Betty, and letting 
Mowitza follow, he walked ahead himself, to break 
the trail—a slow, slavish task, and the journey seemed 
endless. Hour after hour went by in that slow march 
—scarcely a word spoken, save when rest was nec¬ 
essary; and the snow never ceased falling — a 
widely different journey from that other time when he 
had hunted and found her. 

“You have your own time finding the trail for me 
when I get lost,” she said once, as he lifted her to 
the saddle after a short rest. 

“You did the same thing for me one day, a good 
while ago,” he answered simply. 

The night had reached its greatest darkness, in the 
hours that presage the dawn, when they crossed the 
last ridge, and knew that rest was at last within com¬ 
paratively easy reach. Then, for the first time, 
Genesee spoke of his self-imposed search. 

“I reckon you know Pm an Indian?” he said, byway 
of preface. 


294 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“I don’t know anything of the sort.” 

“But I am—a regular adopted son in the Kootenai 
tribe, four years old; so if they ask you if an Indian 
guide brought you home, you can tell them yes. Do 
you see?” 

“Yes, I see, but not the necess’ty. Why should I 
not tell them you brought me?” 

“May be you know, and maybe you don’t, that Pm 
not supposed to range far from camp. Kalitan was 
to go for you. Kalitan had some other work, and 
sent a Kootenai friend of his. The friend’s name is 
Lamonti. Can you mind that? It means ‘the mount¬ 
ain.’ I come by it honest—it’s a present Grey Eagle 
made me. If they ask questions about your guide, 
just put them off someway—tell them you don’t know 
where he’s gone to; and you won’t. Now, can you do 
that?” 

"I can, of course; but I don’t like to have you 
leave like this. You must be half-dead, and I—Jack, 
Jack, what would I have done without you! ” 

He was so close, in the darkness, that in throwing 
out her hand it touched his face, one of the trivial 
accidents that turn lives sometimes. He caught it, 
pressing it to his lips, his eyes, his gheek. 

“Don’t speak like that, unless you want to make a 
crazy man of me,”he muttered. • “I can’t stand every¬ 
thing. God! girl, you’ll never know, and I—can’t tell 
you ! For Christ’s sake, don’t act as if you were afraid 
—the only one who has ever had faith in me! I think 
that would wake up all the devil you helped put asleep 
once. Here! give me your hand again, just once-- 
just to show you trust me. I’ll be worth it— I swear I 
will! I’ll never come near you again !” 

The bonds under which he had held himself so long 


LAMONTI. 


295 


had broken at the touch of her hand and the impul¬ 
sive tenderness of her appeal. Through the half sob 
in his wild words had burst all the repressed emotions 
of desolate days and lonely nights, and the force of 
them thrilled the girl, half-stunned her, for she could 
not speak. A sort of terror of his broken, passionate 
speech had drawn her quickly back from him, and she 
seemed to live hours in that second of indecision. 
All her audacity and self-possession vanished as a 
bulwark of straws before a flood. Her hands trembled, 
and a great compassion filled her for this alien by 
whose side she would have to stand against the world. 
That certainty it must have been that decided her, as 
it has decided many another woman, and ennobled 
many a love that otherwise would have been common¬ 
place. And though her hands trembled, they trem¬ 
bled out toward him, and fell softly as a benediction 
on his upturned face. 

“I think you will come to me again,” she said 
tremulously, as she leaned low from the saddle and 
felt tears as well as kisses on her hands, “and you are 
worth it now, I believe; worth more than I can give 
you. ” 

A half-hour later Rachel entered the door of the 
ranch, and found several of its occupants sleepless and 
awaiting some tidings of her. In the soft snow they 
had not heard her arrival until she stepped on the porch. 

“Fve been all night getting here,” she said, glanc¬ 
ing at the clock that told an hour near dawn, “and 
I’m too tired to talk; so don’t bother me. See how 
hoarse I am. No; Kalitan did not bring me. It was 
a Kootenai called Lamonti. I don’t know where he 
has gone—wouldn’t come in. Just keep quiet and 
let me get to bed, will you?” 


296 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER 11. 

A PHILOSOPHICAL HORSE-THIEF. 

An hour before dawn the wind came, hurtling 
down through the mountains and moaning along the 
valleys; before it came the flying snow in great chilly 
sheets, as it was lifted from the high places and spread 
in every nook that would warrant its safe-keeping. 

And through its fitful gusts Genesee walked into 
camp, his tracks filling, as he left them, by the eager 
flakes. There seemed a strange alertness about the 
place, for so early an hour—even through the commo¬ 
tion, blissful and despairing, in his own breast, he 
noticed it as the guard hailed him, and when he 
replied, he heard ’from that individual an excited 
exclamation of astonishment. 

“By jolly, if it ain’t Genesee!” 

“I reckon it is,” he answered, and passed on, too 
tired, yet elated by his night’s work, to care whether 
or not his absence had been commented on. 

But the door of the shack had barely closed on him 
than one of the several lanterns that he had noticed 
floating like stars along the snow stopped at his 
door, then a knock, and the entrance of a very wide¬ 
awake looking corporal. 

“You are to report to Captain Holt at once,” was 
the message he brought. 

“What’s up?” and the boot that was half-way off 
was yanked on again. 

“That’s all the message I was given.” 


A PHILOSOPHICAL HORSE-THIEF. 


297 


"The - you say; well, trot along.” 

His own frowning perplexity was no more decided 
than that of Captain Holt, as he looked up to notice 
the entrance of the scout—and there was little of friend¬ 
liness in the look. 

"You sent a man to say you wanted me.” 

"Yes, I sent a man about two hours ago to say I 
wanted you,” was the ironical reply. "You were not 
to be found. Have you any report to make?” 

"Not that I know of," he said curtly. A sort of 
quiet antagonism had always been felt between the 
chief of scouts and the new commander, but this was 
the first time any expression had been given it, and 
Genesee’s intolerance quickly responded to the man¬ 
ner of the officer that had in it both dislike and dis¬ 
trust. 

"Then you refuse to tell where you spent the 
night?" 

The light in Genesee’s eyes flashed sudden defi¬ 
ance. 

"Yes; if it comes to that, and that’s the way you put 
it, I do." 

"You had better think twice before you give that 
answer," advised Captain Holt, his face paling with 
anger at the insubordination; "and another question to 
be put to you is, Where is the half-breed, your run¬ 
ner?" 

"I don’t know as that concerns you, either,” answered 
Genesee coolly. "He is my Indian, and neither of us 
belonging to the United States Army, we can leave 
camp when it suits us. But I don’t mind telling you 
I sent him to Holland’s yesterday.” 

"For what purpose?” 

"My own business." 



2g8 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“The same thing that took you from camp at three 
yesterday and kept you out all night?” 

“Just so.” 

“Then, since you refuse to answer a very necessary 
question, you may—until I have an opportunity of 
investigating an absence that is, to say the least, 
suspicious—you may consider yourself under arrest.” 

“What in-” 

“For horse-stealing,” finished the Captain calmly. 

Genesee’s hand dropped to his belt in a sug¬ 
gestive manner, and from the door two guards stepped 
forward. He turned to look at them, and the ridicu¬ 
lous idea of his arrest quelled the quick rage that 
had flashed up in his face. 

“You needn’t have troubled ^yourself with these 
protectors, ” he remarked, “for I reckon there isn’t much 
I’d want to do that they would stop me from; and 
as for you—this is a piece of dirty work for some end. 
I’m ready to be put under arrest, just to see some 
fun when your commander gets back. And now 
may be you’ll just tell me whose horse I stole?” 

“It is not one horse, but one-half the stock belong¬ 
ing to the company, that was run off by your Kootenai 
friends last night,” replied Captain Holt grimly; “and 
as your disappearance was likely helpful to them, and 
a matter of mystery to the command, you will be 
debarred from visiting them again until the matter is 
investigated. Even the explanation is more than your 
insolence deserves. You can go back to your quar¬ 
ters. ” 

“It’s an infernal lie!” burst out Genesee wrathfully. 
“No Kootenai touched your stock. It’s been some 
thieving Blackfeet and their white friends; and if you 
interfere with the Kootenais, and try to put it on 



A PHILOSOPHICAL HORSE-THIEF. 


299 


their shoulders, you’ll get yourself in trouble—big 
trouble. ” 

“When I want your advice, I will ask for it,” was 
the natural reply to the contradiction and half threat. 
Genesee walked to the door with the guards, and 
turning, came back. 

“Captain Holt,” with more of appeal in manner 
than one would look for in him, “I’m ready to take my 
chances in this business, and I’m not trying to give 
advice, but I’m going to ask you, on the reputa¬ 
tion you know I have in Indian matters, to be mighty 
careful what you do or what you let the men do toward 
the Kootenai people. They’re only waiting the 
Major’s return to send word to camp that their arms 
and fighting braves are willing to help the troops 
against the Blackfeet if they’re needed. I know it. 
Their messenger is likely to come any day; and it will 
be a bad thing for our cause if their friendliness is 
broken by this suspicion.” 

“Your cause?" 

“No, I haven’t got any,” he retorted. “I’m not talk¬ 
ing for myself—I’m out of it; but I mean the cause of 
lives here in the valley—the lives on both sides— 
that would be lost in a useless fight. It’s all useless.” 

“And you acknowledge, then, that 3 ^ou don’t con¬ 
sider the cause of the whites as your own cause?” 
asked the Captain quietly. 

“Yes!” he burst out emphatically, “I’ll own up to 
you or anyone else; so make me a horse-thief on that, 
if you can! I’d work for the reds quicker than for 
you, if there was anything to be gained by fighting for 
them; but there isn’t. They’d only kill, and be 
killed off in the end. If I’ve worked on your side, it’s 
been to save lives, not to take them; and if I’ve got 


300 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


any sympathies in the matter, it’s with the reds. 
They’ve been dogged to death by your d—d ‘cause.’ 
Now you’ve got my ideas in a nut-shell.” 

“Yes, ” agreed the Captain sarcastically, ‘‘very plainly 
expressed. To establish entirely your sympathy with 
your red friends, it only remains for you to be equally 
frank and report your movements of last night.” 

“Go to --- and find out;” and with this climax of 

insubordination, the scout left the presence of the 
commanding officer and marched back to his shack, 
where he took possession of the bunk and was sound 
asleep in five minutes, and altogether undisturbed by 
the fact that a guard was stationed at the door of the 
impromptu prison with orders to shoot him if an 
attempt to escape was made. 

Captain Holt’s leniency with the scout, who simply 
fgnored military rule and obedience in a place where 
it was the only law, was, for him, phenomenal. 

But the one thing in Genesee’s favor was his volun¬ 
tary return to camp; and until he learned what scheme 
was back of that, the Captain was obliged, with the 
thought of his superior officer in mind and the 
scout’s importance, to grant him some amenities, 
ignore his insolence, and content himself with keeping 
him under guard. 

But the guard outside was not nearly so strong in its 
control of him as the bonds of sleep that held him 
through the morning and well-nigh high noon. He 
had quickly summed up the case after his interview 
with Holt, and decided that in two days, at most, the 
Major would be back, and that the present commander 
would defer any decided movement toward the 
Kootenais until then. As for the horses, that was 
a bad business; but if they chose to put him under 


A PHILOSOPHICAL HORSE-THIEF. 


301 


arrest, they plainly took from him the responsibility 
of hunting for stock. So he decided, and in the free¬ 
dom of any further care, dropped asleep. Once a 
guard came in with some breakfast, which he ate 
drowsily, and turned again to his pillow. 

“When that fool, the commanding officer, concludes 
to let up on this arrest, there’s likely to be some work 
to do—I’ll fortify myself while I have the chance;” 
and that determination, added to his exhaustion, served 
to make his rest a very deliberate affair, not to be 
disturbed by trifles. 

Several things occurred through that winter’s morn¬ 
ing that were far from trifling; yet no sound came to 
him of them, not even when a shot on the ridge 
echoed across the valley, and ten minutes later was 
followed by several more, and accompanied by yells, 
heard faintly, but clear enough to tell that a skirmish¬ 
ing party was having a shooting-match with some¬ 
one across the hills. In three minutes every horse 
left in camp was mounted and scurrying fast as their 
feet could carry them through the drifts, and the 
horseless ones, whose stock had been run off in the 
muffled silence of the snow-storm, remained unwill¬ 
ingly behind. 

At the end of the avenue Lieutenant Murray caught 
sight of Stuart and Hardy, riding toward camp. 
There was a hallooed invitation to join, another of 
acceptance, and the civilians joined the irregular 
cavalcade and swept with them over the hill, where 
the sounds of shots were growing fainter—evidently 
a retreat and a chase—toward which they rode 
blindly. 

Through all of it their chief of scouts slept uncon¬ 
cernedly; a solid ten hours of rest was taken posses- 


302 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


sion of before he aroused himself to care whether it 
was daylight or darkness. 

“Major come yet?” was the first query. 

“No.” 

“Am I still under arrest?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then bring me something to eat. Past chuck?” 

On being informed that the midday meal had been 
ended two hours before, his next query was whether 
anyone from the ranch had been to camp; but the 
guard thought not—a reply most grateful to the pris¬ 
oner. 

“Suppose you tell me something of the horses being 
run off,” he suggested. “Oh, yes, I reckon Pm sup¬ 
posed to know all about it,” he added; “but, just 
to pass the time, suppose you tell me your side of 
it.” 

There was not much to tell. Hardy’s men had 
been riding around after stray stock until late; had 
passed camp after ten o’clock. About one in the morn¬ 
ing the snow was falling thick; a little racket was heard 
in the long shed where the horses were tied, and the 
sentry, thinking some of Hardy’s stray stock had wan¬ 
dered in there, tramped around with a light to see 
what was wrong. He had barely reached the end of 
the corral when someone from behind struck him 
over the head. In falling, his gun was discharged; 
and when investigations were made, it was found that 
nearly half the horses, about forty head, had been 
quietly run off through the snow, and the exploded 
gun was all that saved the rest. 

The trail was hot, and pursuit began, but the thieves 
evidently knew the country, while the troops did not; 
and every moment lost in consultation and conjecture 


A PHILOSOPHICAL HORSE-THIEF. 


303 


was gained by the people ahead, until the wind rose 
and the trail was buried in the snow. 

The followers had only returned to camp a few min¬ 
utes before Genesee was reported back; but the man 
surmised that if the troops did not get the horses, they 
were taking their pay out of the hides of the red-skins. 

"How’s that?” demanded Genesee, with the quick, 
perplexed frown that was as much anxiety as displeas¬ 
ure. 

"Well, a young cub of a Siwash came a-riding along 
to camp about noon, as large as life and independent 
as a hog on ice, and Denny Claflin—you know him, 
his horse was roped in by them last night—well, he 
called the buck to halt, as he’d a perfect right to 
do, and got no more notice than if the wind had whis¬ 
tled. Denny hates an Injun as the devil does holy 
water, and being naturally riled over last night, he 
called to halt, or he’d fire. Well, Mr. Siwash never 
turned his head, and Denny let him have it.” 

"Killed him?” 

“Dead as a door-nail. Right over the ridge north. 
Our boys were just coming in, after skirmishing for 
signs from last night. They heard the shot, and rode 
up; and then, almost before they saw them, some 
ambushed Injuns bust out on them like all-possessed. 
They’d come with the young one, who was sent ahead, 
you see. Well, there was a go-as-you-please fight, I 
guess, till our men got out from camp, and chased 
them so far they haven’t showed up since. Some of 
us went out afoot to the ridge, and found the dead 
buck. We buried him up there, and have been keeping 
an eye open for the boys ever since.” 

“Did Captain Holt go?” 

“You bet! and every other man that had a horse 


I 


304 TOLD IN THE HILLS. 

to go on; even that Mr. Stuart and Hardy from the 
ranch went.” 

“And they haven’t showed up?” 

‘‘Naw. ” 

No more questions were asked, and the guard betook 
himself to his pipe and enjoyment of the warm room, 
for intense cold had followed in the wake of the 
snow. 

And the prisoner? The man on watch eyed dubi¬ 
ously the dark face as it lounged on the bunk. 
Aroused and refreshed by rest, he drifted away 
from the remembrance of his prison by living over 
with tender eyes the victory of the night before. 
Once he had seen it was possible for her to care for 
him—that once of a year ago, before she knew what 
he was; but lately—well, he thought her a plucky, 
cool-headed girl, who wouldn’t go back on a friend, 
and her stanchness had shown that; but the very 
frank and outspoken showing had taken from him any 
hope of the warmer feeling that had existed in the 
old days, when she had likened him to a Launcelot in 
buckskin. The hope? His teeth set viciously as he 
thought of it as a hope. What right had he for such 
a wish? What right had he to let go of himself as 
he had done, and show her how his life was bound up 
in hers? What a hopeless tangle it was; and if she 
cared for him, it meant plainly enough that he was to 
repay her by communicating its hopelessness to her. 

If she cared! In the prosaic light of day he even 
attempted to tell himself that the victory of the night 
might have been in part a delusion; that she had 
pitied him and the passion she had raised, and so had 
stooped from the saddle. Might it not have been only 
that? His reason told him—Perhaps; and then all the 


A PHILOSOPHICAL HORSE-THIEF. 


305 


wild unreason in the man turned rebel, and the force 
of a tumultuous instinct arose and took possession of 
him—of her, for it gave her again into his arms, and 
the laws of people were as nothing. She was his by 
her own gift; the rest of the world was blotted out. 


TOLD IN THE HILLS» 


306 


CHAPTER III. 

“the squaw who rides.” 

At the ranch a strange cloak of silence hung around 
the household in regard to the horse-stealing. The 
men, hearing of the night raid, had endeavored to 
keep it from the women for fear of giving them uneasi¬ 
ness, but had not altogether succeeded. Jim had frus¬ 
trated that attempt by forgetting, and blurting out at 
the dinner-table something about Genesee’s arrest. 

“It isn’t true; it can’t be true! “and Rachel turned 
with such an appeal in her tired eyes that Andrews 
dropped his own. 

“It’s true. Miss; he’s accused of knowin’ all about 
it, even if he didn’t help. It’s supposed to be his 
Kootenai friends that did it, and they say he’s mighty 
close-mouthed over it; that tells agaiilst him. I hope 
to God it ain’t true, for he seemed a mighty good 
man; but he’s under guard at the camp; won’t allow 
folks to see him, I hear—leastwise, no Injuns.” 

Rachel glanced at the others, but found in their 
faces no strong partisanship for Genesee. Til lie and 
Fred were regretful, but not hopeful. 

“It seems a shame that such a fine-looking fellow 
should be a squaw man,” said the Major’s daughter; 
“but since he is one, there is not much to be hoped of 
him, though papa did have a wonderful lot of faith 
in this one.” 

Rachel’s eyes lightened at the words. “What day 
do they look for your father back?” she asked quickly. 


f 


'the squaw who rides. ” 


307 


“To-day or to-morrow, though this snow may hinder 
them some.” 

“Well, he can’t get here any too soon,” chipped in 
the loquacious Jim. “I reckon they—” 

And then his discourse was cut short by the toe of 
Andrews’ boot under the table. Although the horse-steal¬ 
ing was known at the ranch, and now the suspicion of 
Genesee, yet there was one thing that Andrews and 
Ivans had maneuvered to keep quiet, ‘and that was 
the absence of Hardy and Stuart, and the fact that hos¬ 
tile Indians had descended from the hills. 

Apocryphal stories had been told Tillie of an early 
supper her husband and guest had eaten at camp, and 
a ride they had taken after stock overlooked the night 
before; and the hours dragged on, the night came, and 
the two conspirators were gaining themselves the 
serious anxiety they had endeavored to shield the 
women from, and Jim, once outside the door, was 
threatened with instant annihilation if he let his 
tongue run so far ahead of his wit again. 

The ladies had decided not to tell Rachel about 
Genesee—Tillie had so clear a remembrance of her 
stubborn friendliness for that outlaw; but Jim had 
settled the question of silence, and all the weariness 
dropped from her at thought of what that accusation 
meant to him—death. Once she got up with the stong 
light of hope in her eyes, and running across the snow 
in the dark, opened the door of the stable where Jim 
was bedding the horses. 

“Jim!” she called sharply; “when was it the stock 
was run off from camp^—what time?” 

“Early this mornin’,” answered that youth sulkily. 
He had just received the emphatic warning against 
“tattling." 


3o8 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“This morning? What time this morning?” 

“Oh, early; afore daylight.” 

Before daylight! She had gained a wild hope that 
it was during the time they were together; but from 
Jim’s vague suggestion they had returned just about 
the time it had occurred—in time for it. She turned 
hopelessly toward the house, then hesitated and came 
back. 

“Jim.” 

“Well?” 

“Is Mowitza here?” 

“Yes; can’t you see?” 

But she could not see very clearly. Something in 
her eyes blinded her as she ^bought of Mowitza and 
the glad days when they kne ;^ach other first; and of 
Mowitza’s master, and his voice as she had heard it 
last—and the words! Oh, the despairing, exultant, 
compelling words! And then, after he had gone from 
her, could it be so? 

"Take good care of the mare, Jim, until—until he 
needs her.” 

And when the girl re-entered the house, Tillie 
turned with a lecture to deliver on the idiocy of going 
out without a wrap; but it was not spoken, for a glance 
into Rachel’s eyes told she had been crying—some¬ 
thing so unusual as to awe the little woman into silence, 
and perplex her mightily. Headstrong as the girl 
had been in her championship of Genesee, Tillie had 
always been very sure that the cause was mainly 
Rachel’s contrariness; and to associate him with the 
tears never entered her mind. 

And the evening wore on, and about the fire there 
were conjectures about the protracted stay of Hardy 
and Stuart, and wonderment from Fred that not a man 


THE SQUAAV WHO RIDES. 


309 


had called from the camp all day and evening. Rachel 
sat silent, thinking—thinking, and finding a glimmer 
of hope in the thought that Major Dreyer would soon 
be back; there, she felt, would be no prejudiced mind 
come to judgment. 

At last they were startled by the sound of a step 
on the porch, and all looked around, glad of the return 
of the two wanderers, when the door opened, and there 
entered Kalitan—a very tired-looking Arrow, and 
with something in his face that was more than fatigue 
—anxiety. 

“Rashell Hardy?” he said, and deliberately walked 
into the other room, intimating that she was to fol¬ 
low and the interview to be private—an interview 
conducted in low tom and in Chinook, after which 
Rachel asked Aunty Luce to give him some supper; 
for he was very tired, and would not go on to camp 
until morning. 

The night before had been one of wakefulness, 
because of RachePs absence, and all were sleepy enough 
to hunt beds early; and leaving a lunch on the table 
for the absent ones, the hearth was soon deserted— 
Ivans and Andrews, however, agreeing to sleep with 
one eye open. 

But both must have closed unawares, or else the 
moccasined feet that stole out in the darkness must 
have been very, very light, and the other figure 
beside him very stealthy; for no alarm was given, 
no ear took note. It was late, past eleven o’clock, 
when the sentry challenged a horse and rider who were 
coming as briskly and nonchalantly into camp as if it 
had been eleven in the morning, and occasioning as 
much astonishment as had Genesee, when it was seen 
to be Miss Hardy. 


310 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Rather late to be out alone, Miss, ain’t it?” asked 
the sentry, as she stopped to chat with him of the 
continued absence of the men. 

“Is it?” she laughed. “I don’t know what you call 
late over here; but I suppose we of the ranch would 
be considered night-owls. I rode over with some mail 
that came late, and thought I’d hear if there was any 
news before we went to bed. Who’s in command?” 

“Lieutenant Kennedy; but he’s turned in an hour 
ago.” 

“Good gracious! Do you folks go to bed with the 
sun? I have a magazine for him, but he can wait for 
it, then, until to-morrow. Tell him I will expect him 
over. ” 

“Yes, Miss." 

Just then from along the avenue sauntered a sol¬ 
dierly figure, who drew near at the sound of voices. 

“There comes Sergeant Kelp,” remarked the sentry. 
“He’s on night duty in Kennedy’s place.” 

Instantly the girl turned to the officer in charge. 

“Well, I’m glad to find someone up and awake,” 
she said, leaning over to shake hands with him. “It 
helps to keep me from seeming altogether a night- 
prowler. I came over to get the returns, if there 
were any. The folks are getting anxious at the ranch.” 

“Naturally,” answered the young fellow. “I would 
have called this evening, but am on duty. DonT 
let the ladies worry if you can help it. We are likely 
to hear from the men before morning. Every scout we 
had went with them, and without horses we can’t do 
much but just stay here and wait; all the boys find 
it mighty hard work, too.” 

“You remind me of half my mission. Sergeant, when 
you speak of your scouts. I brought over some mail, 


"the squaw who rides.” 


3II 

and everyone I wanted to see is either away or asleep. 
But how about your chief of scouts—is he asleep, 
too?” 

And it seemed to her that her heart ceased beat¬ 
ing, the wind ceased blowing, and the stars ceased 
twinkling above the snow, as she waited for his dis¬ 
gusted reply. 

"No; not by a good deal. I never saw such a crank 
as that fellow! When everything was smooth sail¬ 
ing, that man would skulk around camp without a 
word to speak to anyone, the surliest white man I 
want to see; but now that he^s jailed for horse-steal¬ 
ing, tied up and watched in the shack. I’m blest if he 
doesn’t put in the time singing. Yes, he does; been 
at it ever since taps. I threatened to have him gagged 
if he disturbed the boys; but they say he don’t. 
Roberts is the only one who has to listen to it; says 
he never heard so many Indian songs in his life. But 
it’s a mighty queer streak of luck for a man to be mu¬ 
sical over. ” 

Rachel laughed, and agreed. "I have a letter for 
him, too,” she added. "Look here; I’d like to take it 
to him myself, and get to hear some of those songs. Can 
I? I know it’s rather late, but if he is awake, it don’t 
matter, I suppose; or is no one allowed to see him?” 

"Indians only are tabooed, but none of them have 
shown up, not even his runner, and I guess you can 
speak to him if you want to; it isn’t a thing most 
ladies would like to do, though,” he added. 

“I suppose not,” she said good-humoredly; "but 
then. I’ve known the man for something over a year, 
and am not at ail afraid—in fact. I’d rather like to 
do it and have something to horrify the ladies at the 
ranch with. Think of it! An interview with a horse- 


312 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


thief—perhaps a duet with him all alone in the mid¬ 
dle of the night. Oh, yes, that’s too good to miss. 
But I must hurry up, or they will be sending some¬ 
one after me.” 

At the door of the shack, however, she paused a 
moment in what might be trepidation, her hand laid 
hesitatingly on the saddle, as if in doubt whether to 
remount or enter the shanty, from which she could 
hear the low refrain of a song of their cultus corrie — 
"Tsolo, tso-lo!" 

“The guard will not leave the door?” she whispered; 
and Sergeant Kelp concluded that, after all, she was 
pretending to greater nerve than she possessed. 

“Never fear,” he returned; “I will call him out to 
hold your horse, and he won’t stir from the door. By 
the way. I’ll have someone to see you home when 
you’re ready to go. Good-night.” 

And then the guard was called out, and a moment 
later the visitor slipped in, the prisoner never turning 
his head or noticing the exchange until she spoke. 

“Jack!” 

He turned then quick enough. 

“God A’mighty, girl 1 What are you doing 
here?” 

She thought of the ears, possibly listening ears, on 
the other side of the door, and her tone was guarded 
and careless, as it had been with the Sergeant, as she 
laughed and answered in Chinook: 

“To pay a visit; what else?” 

She noticed with exultation that it was only rope 
he was tied with—his hands and his feet, as he sat 
on the bunk—a plaited rope of rawhide; strong enough 
when strengthened by a guard opposite and a loaded 
gun; but without the guard and with a keen knife! 


"the squaw who rides.” 313 

She checked him in the midst of a passionate pro¬ 
test against her coming. 

"I am here, so that fact is settled,” she said qui¬ 
etly. ‘‘I didn’t come for fun, and we haven’t any 
time to lose. I brought you a letter; it is in this,” 
she said. 

“You have seen Kalitan?” 

He took from her the rubber case and extracted the 
letter from it, but scarcely noticed it, his eyes were 
turned so anxiously to her face. 

“Yes; and you had better read it," she advised, 
walking back to the door. 

“Rachel—" 

“Read it; let them see you!" and she opened the 
door wide and stepped out as if to make sure of the 
guard’s presence. 

“It’s all right. Miss, I’m here," he whispered, look¬ 
ing past her to the prisoner opening the letter and 
throwing the envelope in the fire. “I’ll not stir from 
here with the beast. Don’t be uneasy; ” and then she 
turned back and closed the door. She had seen he 
was not close enough to listen. 

“Jack,” she said, coming back to him, “you must 
get out of this. Mowitza is at the door; I have brought 
the things you will need. Can you make a dash for 
it and get away? ” 

He looked at her in utter amazement. 

“I didn’t know it until to-night,” she continued; 
“this is your chance, before the others get back—if 
they ever do get back! God help them!" 

“What do you mean? Where are they?" And his 
hand, tied as it was, caught her own quickly. 

“They are in a death-trap, in that gully back of the 
Tamahnous ground. You know where—right over the 


314 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


peak from the old mine. They’ve been there since 
dark, hedged in by the Kootenais, who are only waiting 
for daylight to come. Heaven help our men when it 
does come!” 

“The Kootenais? It can’t be them. They are not 
hostile.” 

“Not yesterday,” she agreed bitterly, “but they are 
to-day. They sent a messenger of good-will to camp 
this morning, the grandson of Grey Eagle. He was 
shot down, almost in sight of camp, by one of the 
soldiers, and the braves he had brought, the best in 
the tribe, attempted a rescue. Our cavalry pursued 
them, and were led into that ravine. The Indians 
knew the ground, and our men didn’t. At the end of 
the narrow pass, the reds rolled bouLlers down the 
mountain and closed it up, and then cut off retreat; 
and there they are, waiting for daylight or starvation 
—God knows what!” 

“Who told you this?" 

“Kalitan; he met an Indian trapper who had passed 
the gulch but a little while before. He came direct 
to me. The whites here blame you for helping the 
trouble—the beginning it, the—” 

“You mean the horse stealing?” he said looking at 
her curiously. 

“Yes.” Her eyes were on the floor; she did not see 
that scrutiny. “And you must get out of here before 
word comes of those men penned up there. There 
would be no waiting for trial then; they would shoot 
you. ” 

“And that is what you came for?” 

“Yes; ” and she drew a sharp knife—an Indian knife 
—from her belt under the shawl. With a quick stroke, 
she severed the knotted cords and they fell from his 


"the squaw who rides. 


315 


wrists; then she dropped on her knees, a flash, once, 
twice, of the blade in the light, and he stooped and 
raised her. 

"You are doing this for me,” he said, drawing her 
to him, "without knowing whether I deserve shooting 
or not?” 

"Don’t speak of that part of it!” she burst out. 
"When I let myself think, I feel as if I am going 
crazy! ”—then she stopped short. "And a crazy woman 
just now would handicap you some. No, Jack, we 
need all of our wits for to-night—here,” and unfast¬ 
ening the belt from under her shawl, she buckled it 
about him. It contained two loaded revolvers. 

"It’s the first time I’ve armed you as I’ve seen sweet¬ 
hearts or wives do,” she said, looking up at him. "It 
may be the last. I only ask one thing—you will not, 
unless it is the last means of saving your own life, 
turn one of these against my friends?” 

Even then, the weakness of the man in him came 
uppermost. 

"But if it is to save my own life?” 

Her hands went quickly over her eyes, as if- to shut 
out sight or thought. 

"Don’t ask me—onl}^ go—and—take care of yourself! ” 

He caught the hands from her eyes, kissing her 
fiercely—exultantly. 

"Then I am first to you—nearer than all the rest! My 
girl, you’ve proved it to-night, and I’ll show you! If 
you know how to pray, pray for me to-night—Tor me 
and the men in that death-trap. Do you hear? I 
am going now. Here is this letter; it will tell you 
all. If I never come back, tell Prince Charlie he is 
right at last—that I believe him. He will under¬ 
stand. My girl—mine—it is not an eternal good-bye. 


3i6 


TOLD TN THE HILLS. 


I will come back if I live, and I will have to live long 
enough for that! Here, just once, kiss me, my girl— 
my girl! ” 

And the next instant she was flung from that 
embrace and fell with a faint scream to the floor. 

The guard dashed in, and was dextrously tripped by 
an unlooked-for figure close to the wall, his gun 
wrenched from him, and a staggering blow dealt that 
sent him to his knees. 

Clouds had swept over the cold stars, and the sentry 
could see but dimly the equestrian figure that came 
clattering down the avenue. 

“Hadn’t you better wait for company. Miss?” he 
called, but no answer was given; and in much wonder, 
he was about to call again, when pistol-shots from the 
shack aroused the camp. He called a halt; that was 
heeded no more than his question, and he sent a 
random shot after the flying figure—not for the pur¬ 
pose of hitting the girl, but to impress on her the 
duty of a sentry and some idea of military rule. 
Before the last dull thud of hoofs in the snow had 
ceased to be heard, Roberts had staggered to the door, 
firing wildly, and calling to stop the prisoner—to stop 
the horse-thief. 

But there was nothing in the camp to do it with. 
He was gone—everyone was blaming everybody else 
for it; but no one thought of blaming the girl who lay 
in a dead faint on the floor, where he had flung her, that 
none might think she had let him go willingly. And 
Miss Rachel was cared for very tenderly, and a man 
was sent to the ranch to assure Mrs. Hardy of her safe¬ 
keeping, waking Mrs. Hardy out of a delicious sleep, 
and mystifying her completely by the information. 
The only one about the house who might have helped 


'the squaw who rides.” 


317 


elucidate happened to be remarkably sound asleep 
at the time the messenger arrived—an Arrow encased 
in the quiver of rest. 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


318 


CHAPTER IV. 

THROUGH THE LOST MINE. 

An hour before day in the Kootenais! Not the 
musical dawn of that early autumn, when all the 
woods were a-quiver with the fullness of color 
and sound; when the birds called to each other of the 
coming sun, and the little rills of the shady places 
moistened the sweet fern and spread its fragrance around 
and about, until one could find no couch so seductive 
as one on the amber grasses with the rare, all-pervad¬ 
ing scents of the virgin soil. 

Not any of those seductions solaced or made more 
bitter the watch of the men who stood hopeless in the 
snow of that treacherous ravine. Not even a fire dared 
be lit all the night long, because of those suddenly 
murderous natives, who, through knowing the secrets 
of the cleft earth, held their fates at the mercy pf 
eager bronze hands. 

“And one man who knew the country could have 
prevented this!” groaned Hardy, with a thought of the 
little wife and Miss Margaret. How would they lis¬ 
ten to this story? 

“If we had Genesee with us, wew^ould not have been 
penned up in any such fashion as this,” decided Mur¬ 
ray, stamping back and forward, as many others w'ere 
doing, to keep their blood in circulation—for what? 

“Hard to tell,” chimed in the scout from Idaho. 
“Don’t know as it’s any better to be tricked by one’s 
own gang than the hostiles. Genesee, more’n likely, 
was gettin’ ready for this when he run off the stock.” 


THROUGH THE LOST MINE. 


319 


Just then something struck him. The snow made 
a soft bed, but the assailant had not stopped to con¬ 
sider that, and quick as light his knee was on the 
fallen man’s chest. 

“Take it back!’’ he commanded, with the icy muz¬ 
zle of a revolver persuading his meaning into the brain 
of the surprised scout. “That man is no horse-thief. 
Take it back, or I’ll save the Indians the trouble of 
wasting lead on you.” 

“Well,” reasoned the philosopher in the snow, 
“this ain’t the d—t best place I’ve ever been in for 
arguin’ a point, an’ as you have fightin’ ideas on the 

question, an’ I haven’t any ideas, an’ don’t care a- 

of a sight. I’ll eat my words for the time bein’, and 
we’ll settle the question o’ that knock on the head, it 
the chance is ever given us to settle anything, out o’ 
this gully.” 

“What’s this?” and though only outlines of fig¬ 
ures could be distinguished, the voice was the authori¬ 
tative one of Captain Holt. “Mr. Stuart, I am sur¬ 
prised to find you in this sort of thing, and about 
that squaw man back in camp. Find something better 
to waste your strength for. There is no doubt in 
my mind now of the man’s complicity—” 

“Stop it!” broke in Stuart curtly; “you can hold 
what opinion you please of him, but you can’t tell 
me he’s a horse-thief. A squaw man and adopted Indian 
he may be, and altogether an outlaw in your eyes; 
but I doubt much your fitness to judge him, and advise 
you not to call him a thief until you are able to prove 
your words, or willing to Tack them with all we’ve 
got left here.” 

All they had left was their lives, and Stuart’s unex¬ 
pected recklessness and sharp words told them his was 



320 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


ready as a pledge to his speech. None cared, at that 
stage of the game, to question why. It was no time 
for quarrels among themselves when each felt that 
with the daylight might come death. 

Afterward, when the tale was told, no man could 
remember which of them first discovered a form in 
their midst that had not been with them on their 
entrance—a breathless, panting figure, that leaned 
against one of their horses. 

“Who is it?" someone asked. 

“What is it?" 

But no one answered—only pressed closer, with fin¬ 
gers on triggers, fearing treachery. And then the 
panting figure raised itself from its rest on the horse’s 
neck, rose to a stature not easily mistaken, even in 
that light, and a familiar, surly voice spoke: 

“I don’t reckon any of you need be puzzled much 
to find out; ain’t been such a longtime since you saw 
me." 

“By-, it’s Genesee!" 

And despite the wholesale condemnation of the 
man, there was not a heart that did not grow lighter 
with the knowledge. They knew, or believed, that 
here was the one man who had the power to save them, 
if he cared to use it; but would he? 

“Jack!" 

Someone, at sound of his voice, pushed through 
the crowd with outstretched hand. It was not refused 
this time. 

“Bve come for you," was all Genesee said; then he 
turned to the others. 

“Are you willing to follow me?’.’ he asked, raising 
his voice a little. “The horses can’t go through where 
I’ve got to take you; you’ll have to leave them." 



THROUGH THE LOST MINE. 


321 


A voice close to his elbow put in a word of expostu¬ 
lation against the desertion of the horses. Genesee 
turned on the speaker with an oath. 

“You may command in a quiet camp, but we’re out¬ 
side of it now, and I put just a little less value on your 
opinion than on any man’s in the gulch. This is a 
question for every man to answer for himself. You’ve 
lost their lives for them if they’re kept here for day¬ 
light. I’ll take them out, if they’re ready to come.” 

There was no dissenting voice. Compared with the 
inglorious death awaiting them in the gulch, the deliv¬ 
erance was a God-send. They did not just see how it 
was to be effected; but the strange certainty of hope 
with which they turned to the man they had left behind 
as a horse-thief was a thing surprising to them all, when 
they had time to think of it—in the dusk of the morn¬ 
ing, they had not. 

He appeared among them as if a deliverer had mate¬ 
rialized from the snow-laden branches of cedar, or 
from the close-creeping clouds of the mountain. They 
had felt themselves touched by a superstitious thrill 
when he was found in their midst; but they knew that, 
come as he might, be what he would, they had in him 
one to whom the mountains were as an open book, as 
the Indians knew when they tendered him the signifi¬ 
cant name of Lamonti. 

Captain Holt was the only rebel on the horse ques¬ 
tion; to add those to the spoils of the Indians was a 
bitter thing for him to do. 

“It looks as if we were not content with them tak¬ 
ing half our stock, but rode up here to leave them the 
rest,” he said, aggressively, to nobody in particular. 
'T’ve a notion to leave only the carcasses.” 

#“Not this morning,” broke in the scout. “We’ve no 


21 


322 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


time to wait for work of that sort. Serves you right 
to lose them, too, for your d—d blunders. Come along, 
if you want to get out of this—single file, and keep 
quiet. ” 

It was no time for argument or military measures 
for insubordinates; and bitter as the statement of in¬ 
efficiency was. Captain Holt knew there were some 
grounds for it, and knew that, in the eyes of the men, 
he was judged from the same stand-point. The blind 
raid with green scouts did seem, looking back at it, 
like a headlong piece of folly. How much of folly the 
whole attack was, they did not as yet realize. 

It was not far that Genesee led them through the 
stunted, gnarled growth up the steep sides of the gulch. 
Half-way to the top there were, in the summer-time, 
green grass and low brush in which the small game 
could hide; but above that rose a sheer wall of rock 
clear up to where the soil had gathered and the pines 
taken root. 

In the dusk they could see no way of surmounting 
it; yet there was no word of demur, not even a ques¬ 
tion. He was simply their hope, and they followed him. 

And their guide felt it. He knew few of them 
liked him personally, and it made his victory the 
greater; but even above that was the thought that his 
freedom was due to the girl who never guessed how 
he should use it. 

He felt, some way, as if he must account to her for 
every act she had given him the power to perform, as 
if his life itself belonged to her, and the sweetness of 
the thought was with him in every step of the night 
ride, in every plan for the delivery of the men. 

At the very foot of the rock wall he stopped and 
turned to the man next him. It was Hardy. 


THROUGH THE LOST MINE. 


323 ' 


“It’s a case of ‘crawl’ here for a few lengths; pass 
the word along, and look out for your heads.’' 

The next instant he had vanished under the rock 
wall—Hardy following him; then a flicker of light 
shone like a star as a guide for the others, and in five 
minutes every man of them had wriggled through 
what seemed but a slit in the solid front. 

“A regular cave, by hooky! ’’ said the moral guide from 
Idaho, as he stood upright at last. His voice echoed 
strangely. “Hooky ! hooky! hooky !’’ sounded from dif¬ 
ferent points where the shadows deepened, suggesting 
endless additions to the room where they stood. 

Genesee had halted and was splitting up some pine 
for a torch, using the knife Rachel had cut his bonds 
with, and showing that the handle was stained with 
blood, as were the sticks of pine he was handling. 

“Look for some more sticks around here, and lend 
a hand,” he said. “We need more than one torch. I 
burnt up what I had in working through that hole. 
I’ve been at it for three hours, I reckon, without 
knowing, til] I got the last stone away, whether I’d be 
in time or find daylight on the other side.” 

“And is that what cut your hands?” asked Lieuten¬ 
ant Murray. “Why, they’re a sight! For heaven’s 
sake, what have you been doing?” 

“I found a ‘cave-in’ of rock and gravel right at the 
end of that tunnel,” answered Genesee, nodding the 
way they had just come, and drawing their notice to 
fresh earth and broken stone thrown to the side.- “I 
had no tools here, nothing but them, ” and he motioned 
toward a mallet-like thing of stone. “My tools were 
moved from the mine over to Scot’s Mountain awhile 
back, and as that truck had to be hoisted away, and I 
hadn’t time to invite help, it had to be done with these; ’’ 


324 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


and he held out his hands that were bleeding—a tell¬ 
ing witness of his endeavors to reach there in time. 
And every man of them felt it. 

There was an impulsive move forward, and Hardy 
was the first to hold out his hand. But Genesee 
stepped back, leaning against the wall. 

“That’s all right. Hardy,“he said, with something 
of his old careless smile. “I’m glad you’re the first, 
for the sake of old times; but I reckon it would be 
playing it pretty low down on a friend to let him take 
me in on false pretenses. You see I haven’t been 
acquitted of horse-stealing yet—about the most low¬ 
lived trade a man can turn to, unless it is sheep¬ 
stealing. " 

“Oh, h—1!” broke in one of theTnen, “this clears the 
horse business so far as I’m concerned, and I can bet 
on the other boys, too! ” 

“Can you?” asked Genesee, with a sort of elated, yet 
conservative, air; “but this isn’t your game or the boys’ 
game. I’m playing a lone hand, and not begging 
either. That torch ready?” 

And the rebuff kept the others from any advance, if 
they had thought of making it. Lieutenant Murray 
had picked up the stone mallet and was examining it 
by the flickering light; one side was flattened a little, 
like a tomahawk. 

“That’s a queer affair,” he remarked. “What did you 
have it made for?” 

''Have it made ! The chances are that thing was made 
before Columbus ever managed a sail-boat,” returned 
Genesee. “I found a lot of them in here; wedges, too, 
and such.” 

“In here?” and the men looked with anew interest 
at the rocky walls. “What is it?” 


THROUGH THE LOST MINE. 


325 


“An extension I tumbled into, over a year back, 
when I was tunneling at a drift the other side of the 
hill. One day I found that hole there, and minded it 
this morning, so it came in handy. I reckon this is 
the original Tamahnous mine of the old tribe. It’s 
been lost over a hundred years. The Kootenais only 
have a tradition of it.” 

“A mine—gold?” 

“Well, I was digging for a silver show when I 
struck it,” answered Genesee; “and, so far as I see, 
that’s what was here, but it’s worked out. Didn’t do 
much prospecting in it, as I left the Kootenai hills 
less than a week after. I just filled up the entry, and 
allowed it would keep till I got back.” 

“Does it belong to you?” asked one man, with specu¬ 
lation in his voice. 

Genesee laughed. “I reckon so. Tamahnous Peak is 
mine, and a few feet of grazing land on the east. 
Nobody grudges it to me up this way. Indians think 
it’s haunted, ’cause all the rocks around it give echoes; 
and I—” 

He ceased speaking abruptly, his eyes on the pile 
of debris in the corner. Then he lit a fresh torch 
from the dying one, and gave the word to strike for 
the outside, following single file, as the hill was 
pretty well honey-combed, and it was wise to be cau¬ 
tious. 

“Because,” said their leader, “if any should stray 
off, we might not have time this day of our Lord to 
come back and hunt him up.” 

Before leaving what seemed like the back entrance, 
he walked over to the corner and picked up the thing 
that had arrested his attention a minute before, and 
slipping it in his pocket, walked to the head of the 


326 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


long line of men, several of whom were wounded, but 
only one less than the number who had left camp. 
And the one lacking was the man who had fired the 
first shot and killed the messenger from Grey Eagle 
—he himself dying from a wound, after the ride into 
the gulch. 

As the scout passed the men, a hand and a pair of 
gloves were thrust out to him from a group; and 
turning his torch so that the light would show the 
giver, he saw it was Stuart. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said, v/ith more graciousness 
than most of the men had ever seen in him; “ITl 
take them from you, as my own are damaged some. ” 
They were torn to shreds, and the fingers under them 
worn to the quick. 

The echoing steps of the forty men were as if forty 
hundred were making their way through the mine of 
the Tamahnous; for no living tribe ever claimed it, 
even by descent. The hill that contained it had for 
generations been given by tradition to the witches of 
evil, who spoke through the rock—a clever scheme 
of those vanished workers to guard their wealth, or 
the wealth they hoped to find; but for what use? 
Neither silver in coin nor vessel can be traced as ever 
belonging to tribes of the Northern Indians. Yet 
that honey-combed peak, with its wide galleries, its 
many entries, and well-planned rooms, bespoke trained 
skill in underground quarrying. From some unseen 
source fresh air sifted through the darkness to them, 
and the tinkle of dripping water in pools came to 
their ears, though the pools were shrouded in the 
darkness that, just beyond the range of the few 
torches, wa,s intense; and after the long tramp 
through echoing winds and turns, the misty dawn 


THROUGH THE LOST MINE. 


327 


that was still early seemed dazzling to the eyes, red 
and haggard from the vigil of the night. 

“You will have to get away from here on a double- 
quick,” said Genesee sharply, after a glance at the 
sky and up the sides of the hill from which they had 
come. “Once down there in the valley, the fog may 
hide you till sun-up, and then, again, it mightn^t. 
Just mind that they have horses." 

“We are not likely to forget it," was Captain Holt’s 
answer; and then hesitated a moment, looking at 
Genesee. 

“Are you not coming with us?” asked Lieutenant 
Murray, giving voice to the question in his com¬ 
mander’s mind as well as the others. 

“Yes, part of the way,” said the scout quietly, but 
with a challenge to detention in the slight pause 
with which he glanced at the group; “but I have a 
beast to carry me back, and Pm just tired enough to 
use it.” And disappearing for a minute in the brush, 
he led out Mowitza, and, mounting her, turned her head 
toward the terraces of the lower valley. 

They passed the isolated cabin that brought back 
to Stuart a remembrance of where they were; then 
down the steps of the Tamahnous and along the lit¬ 
tle lake, all swathed alike in the snow and the mist, 
leaving null all character in the landscape. 

The cabin was commented on by the men, to whom 
it was a surprise, looming up so close to them through 
the cloud curtain. 

“That’s mine,” their guide remarked, and one of 
them, puzzled, stated it as his belief that Genesee 
claimed the whole Kootenai territory. 

The scout gave up his saddle to a man with a leg- 
wound, but he did not let go the bridle of Mow- 


328 


TOLD TN THE HILLS. 


itza; and so they went on with their guide stalking 
grimly ahead, ready, they all knew, to turn as fiercely 
against them at a sign of restraint as he had worked 
for them, if a movement was made to interfere with 
his further liberty. 

The sun rolled up over the purple horizon—a great 
body of blushes suffusing the mountains; but its 
chaste entrance had brazened into a very steady stare 
before it could pierce the veil of the valleys, and 
pick out the dots of moving blue against the snow on 
the home trail. 

It had been a wonderfully quiet tramp. Most of the 
thoughts of the party were of the man walking ahead 
of them, and his nearness made the discussion of his 
actions awkward. They did not know what to expect 
of him, and a general curiosity prevailed as to what 
Jie would do next. 

They learned, when at last the ridge was reached 
above camp, about the middle of the forenoon. He 
had been talking some to the man on Mowitza, and 
when they reached that point he stopped. 

“Whereabouts?” he asked; and the man pointed to 
a place where the snow was colored by soil. 

“Over there! I guess the boys buried him.” 

“Well, you can get down from that saddle now. I 
reckon you can walk down to camp; if not, they can 
carry you.” Then he turned to the rest. 

“There’s a body under that snow that I want,” he 
said sententiously. “I’m not in condition for any 
more digging,” and he glanced at his hands. “Are 
there any men among you that will get it out for me?” 

“You bet!” was the unhesitating reply; and without 
question, hands and knives were turned to the task, 
the man on horseback watching them attentively. 


THROUGH THE LOST MINE. 


329 


“May I ask what that is for?” asked Captain Holt; 
at last, as amiably as he could, in the face of being 
ignored and affronted at every chance that was given 
Genesee. He had saved the commander’s life; that 
was an easy thing to do compared with the possibil¬ 
ity of hiding his contempt. 

He was openly and even unreasonably aggressive—one 
of the spots in his nature that to a careless eye would 
appear the natural color of his whole character. He 
did not answer at once, and Captain Holt spoke again : 

“What is the object of digging up that Indian?” 

Then Genesee turned in the saddle. 

“Just to give you all a little proof of how big a fool 
a man can be without being a ^ lunatic 

asylum. ” 

And then he turned his attention again to the men 
digging up the loose earth. They had not far to go; 
small care had been taken to make the grave deep. 

“Take care there with your knives,” said Genesee 
as one shoulder was bared to sight. “Lift him out. 
Here—give him to me.” 

“What in-” 

“Give him to me! ” he repeated. “I’ve given your 

-fool lives back to forty of you, and all I’m asking 

for it is that Kootenai’s dead body.” 

Stuart stooped and lifted the chill, dark thing, and 
other hands were quick to help. The frozen soil was 
brushed like dust from the frozen face, and then, heavy— 
heavy, it was laid in the arms of the man waiting for it. 

He scanned from the young face to the moccasined 
feet swiftly, and then turned his eyes to the others. 

“Where’s his blanket?” he demanded; and a man 
who wore it pushed forward and threw it over the 
figure* 


330 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Denny took it,” he said in extenuation, “and when 
Denny went under, I took it.” 

“Yes! ” and again his eyes swept the crowd. “Now 
I want his rifle, his knife, a snake-skin belt, and a 
necklace of bears’ teeth—who’s got them?” 

“Well, I’ll be-1” “How’s that for second sight?” 

“Beats the devil out of -!” were some of the 

sotto-voce remarks exchanged at the enumeration of the 
things wanted. 

“I’ve no time to waste in waiting,” he added. “If 
they’re in this crowd and ain’t given up. I’ll straighten 
the account some day, if I have to hunt five years for 
the trail to them. I’m a-waiting.” 

His hand was laid on the breast of the dead Indian 
as he spoke, and something in the touch brought a 
change to his face. The hand was slipped quickly 
inside the fringed shirt, and withdrawn, clasping a 
roll of parchment cured in Indian fashion. A bitter 
oath broke from him as he untied the white sinews 
of the deer, and glanced at the contents. 

“What is it? What is it?” was the question from 
all sides. 

But Genesee, in a sort of fury, seemed to hear most 
clearly that of the, for the hour, displaced commander. 

“I’ll tell you what it is!” he burst out wrathfully. 
“It’s a message of peace from the Kootenai tribe—an 
offer of their help against the Blackfeet any time the 
troops of the United States need them. It is sent 
by Grey Eagle, the oldest of their w'ar chiefs, and the 
messenger sent was Grey Eagle’s grandson, Snowcap 
—the future chief of their people. And you have had 
him shot down like a dog while carrying that mes¬ 
sage. By-! I wouldn’t have blamed them if they had 

scalped every mother’s son of you.” 




THROUGH THE LOST MINE. 


331 


To say that the revelation was impressive, would ex¬ 
press the emotions of the men but mildly. Captain Holt 
was not the only one of them who turned white at the 
realization of what a provoked uprising of those joint 
tribes would mean, in the crippled condition of the 
camp. It would mean a sweeping annihilation of 
all white blood in their path; the troops would have 
enough to do to defend themselves, without being 
able to help the settlers. 

“In God’s name, Genesee, is this true?” and forget¬ 
ting all animosity in the overwhelming news. Holt 
pressed forward, laying his hand on the shoulder of 
the dead messenger. 

“Take it off!” yelled Genesee, looking at the uncon¬ 
scious hand that involuntarily had moved toward 
him. “Take it off, or, by-, I’ll cut it off!” 

And his fingers closing nervously on the hunting- 
knife emphasized his meaning, and showed how stub¬ 
born and sleepless were the man’s prejudices. 

The hand dropped, and Genesee reached out the docu¬ 
ment to one of the crestfallen scouts., 

“Just read that out loud for the benefit of anyone 
that can’t understand my way of talking,” he sug¬ 
gested with ironical bitterness; “and while you are 
about it, the fellows that stripped this boy will be 
good enough to ante up with everything they’ve got 
of his—and no time to waste about it, either.” 

And Captain Holt, with a new idea of the serious¬ 
ness of the demand, seconded it, receiving with his 
own hands the arms and decorations that had been 
seized by the victorious Denny, and afterward divided 
among his comrades. Genesee noted that rendering 
up of trifling spoils with sullen eyes, in which the 
fury had not abated a particle. 


332 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“A healthy crew you are! ” he remarked contemptu¬ 
ously; “a nice, clean-handed lot, without grit enough 
to steal a horse, but plenty of it for robbing a dead 
boy. I reckon no one of you ever had a boy that age 
of your own. ” 

And several of them—looking in the dark, dead face— 
felt uneasy, and forgot for the moment that they were 
lectured by a horse-thief; forgot even how light a 
thing the life of an Indian was anyway. 

“Don’t blame the whole squad,” said the man who 
took the articles from the Captain and handed them 
up to Genesee. “Denny captured them when he made 
the shot, just as anyone would do, and it’s no use 
cussin’ about Denny; he^s buried up in that gulch— 
the Kootenais finished him.” 

“And saved me the trouble, ” added the scout signifi¬ 
cantly. 

He was wrapping as well as he could the gay 
blanket over the rigid form. The necklace was clasped 
about the throat, but the belt was more awkward to man¬ 
age, and was thrust into the bosom of Genesee’s buckskin 
shirt, the knife in his belt, the rifle swung at his back. 

There was something impressively ghastly in those 
two figures—the live one with the stubbornness of 
fate, and the stolidity, sitting there, with across his 
thighs the blanketed, shapeless thing that had held a 
life; and even the husk seemed a little more horrible 
with its face hidden than when revealed more frankly; 
there was something so weirdly suggestive in the move¬ 
less outlines. « 

“No, I don’t want that,” he said, as the man who 
read the message was about to hand it back to him; 
“it belongs to the command, and I may get a dose of 
cold lead before I could deliver it.” 


THROUGH THE LOST MINE. 


333 


Then he glanced about, signaling Stuart by a motion 
of his head. 

“There’s a lady across in the valley there that I 
treated pretty badly last night,” he said, in a tone so 
natural that all near could hear him, and more than 
one head was raised in angry question. “She was 
just good enough to ride over from the ranch to bring 
a letter to me—hearing I was locked up for a horse- 
thief, and couldn’t go after it. Well, as I tell you, 
I was just mean enough to treat her pretty bad—flung 
her on the floor when she tried to stop me, and then 
nabbed the beast she rode to camp on—happened to 
be my own; but maybe she won’t feel so bad if you 
just tell her what the nag was used for; and may be 
that will show her I didn’t take the trail for fun.” 

“That” was one of the gloves he had worn from his 
hands with his night’s work, and there were stains on 
it darker than those made with earth. 

“I’ll tell her;” and then an impulsive honesty of 
feeling made him add: “You need never fear her 
judgment of you. Jack.” 

The two looked a moment in each other’s eyes, and 
the older man spoke. 

“I’ve been hard on you,” he said deliberately, “d—d 
hard; all at once I’ve seen it, and all the time you’ve 
been thinking a heap better of me than I deserved. 
I know it now, but it’s about over. I won’t stand in 
your way much longer; wait till I come back—” 

“You are coming back? and where are you going?” 
The questions, a tone louder than they had used, were 
heard by the others around. Genesee noted the listen¬ 
ing look on the faces, and his words were answers to 
them as much as to the questioner. 

“I’m going to take the trail for the Kootenai village; 


334 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


if any white man is let reach it, or patch up the 
infernal blunder that’s been made, I can do it with 
him,” and his hand lay on the breast of the shrouded 
thing before him. 

“If I get out of it alive. I’ll be back to meet the 
Major; if I don’t”—and this time his significant 
glance was turned unmistakably to the blue coats and 
their leader—“and if I don’t, you’d better pack your 
carcasses out of this Kootenai valley, and h—1 go.with 
you. ” 

And so, with a curse for them on his lips, and the 
dogged determination to save them in his heart, he 
nodded to Hardy, clasped the hand of Stuart, and 
turning Mowitza’s head, started with that horrible 
burden back over the trail that would take a day and 
a night to cover. 

The men were grateful for the bravery that had saved 
their lives, but burned under the brutal taunts that 
had spared nothing of their feelings. His execrable 
temper had belittled his own generosity. 

He was a squaw man, but they had listened in 
silence, and ashamed, when he had presumed to 
censure them. He was a horse-thief, yet the men who 
believed it watched, with few words, the figure disap¬ 
pear slowly along the trail, with no thought of check¬ 
ing him. 


HIS wife’s letter. 


335 


CHAPTER V. . 

HIS wife’s letter. 

In the bosom of Rachel’s family strange thoughts 
had been aroused .by that story of Genesee’s escape. 

They were wonderfully sparing of their comments 
in her presence; for, when the story came to her of 
what he had done when he left her, she laughed. 

“Yet he is a horse-thief,” she said, in that tone of 
depreciation that expresses praise, “and he sent me 
his glove? Well, I am glad he had the grace to be 
sorry for scattering me over the floor like that. And 
we owe it to him that we see you here alive again? 
We can appreciate his bravery, even say prayers for 
him, if the man would only keep out of sight; but 
we couldn’t ask him to a dinner party, supposing we 
gave dinner parties, could we. Til lie?” 

And Tillie, who had impulsively said “God bless 
him!” from the shelter of her husband’s arms, 
collapsed, conscience-stricken and tearful. 

“You have a horrid way, Rachel, of making people 
feel badly,” she said, in the midst of her thankful¬ 
ness and remorse; “but wait until I see him again—I 
will let him know how much we can appreciate such 
courage as that. Just wait until he comes back! ” 

“Yes,” said the girl, with all the lYony gone from 
her voice, only the dreariness remaining, “I’m wait¬ 
ing.” 

And the words started Tillie to crying afresh; for, 
in the recesses of her own bosom, another secret of 
Genesee’s generosity was hidden for prudential 


336 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


motives—the fact that it was he who had sent the 
guide for Rachel that terrible night of the snow. 
And Til lie was not a good keeper of secrets—even 
this thoroughly wise one was hard to retain, in her 
gladness at having her husband back! 

"The man seems a sort of shepherd of everything 
that gets astray in these hills,” said Lieutenant 
Murray, who was kindly disposed toward all creation 
because of an emotional, unsoldierlike welcome that 
had been given him by the little non-commissioned 
officer in petticoats. "He first led us out of that 
corral in the hills and brought us back where we 
belonged, and then dug up that dead Indian and 
started to take him where he belonged. I tell 
you there was a sort of—of sublimity in the man as 
he sat there with that horrible load he was to carry, 
that is, there would have been if he hadn’t ‘cussed’ 
so much.” 

"Does he swear?” queried Fred. 

“Does he? My child, you would have a finely-trained 
imagination if you could conceive the variety of 
expressions by which he can consign a citizen to the 
winter resort from which all good citizens keep free. 
His profanity, they say, is only equaled by his im¬ 
morality. But, ah-—what a soldier he would make! He 
is the sort of a man that men would walk right up to 
cannon with—even if they detested him personally.” 

"And a man needs no fine attributes or high moral ity 
to wield that sort of influence, does he?” asked Rachel, 
and walked deliberately away before any reply could 
be made. 

But she was no more confident than they of his unim¬ 
peachable worth. There was the horse-thieving still un¬ 
explained; he had not even denied it to her. And she 


HIS wife's letter. 


337 


came to the conclusion that she herself was sadly 
lacking in the material for orthodox womanhood, since 
the more proof she had of his faults, the more solidly 
she took her position for his defense. It had in it some¬ 
thing of the same blind stubbornness that governed 
his likes and dislikes, and that very similarity might 
have accounted for the sort of understanding that had 
so long existed between them. And she had more 
than the horse-stealing to puzzle over. She had 
that letter he had thrust in her hand and told 
her to read; such a pleading letter, fdled with the 
heart-sickness of a lonely woman. She took it out 
and re-read it that time when she walked away from 
their comments; and reading over the lines, and trying 
to read between them, she was sorely puzzled: 

“Dear Jack: I wrote you of my illness weeks ago, 
but the letter must have been lost, or else your answer, 
for I have not heard a word from you, and I have 
wanted it more than I can tell you. I am better, and 
our little Jack has taken such good care of me. He 
is so helpful, so gentle; and do you know, dear, he grows 
to look more like you every day. Does that seem 
strangely He does not resemble me in the least. You 
will think me very exacting, I suppose, when I tell you 
that such a child, and such a home as you have given 
me, does not suffice for my content. I know you will 
think me ungrateful, but I must speak of it to you. 
I wrote you before, but no answer has come. If I get 
none to this, I will go to find you—if I am strong 
enough. If I am not, I shall send Jack. He is so 
maaly and strong, I know he could go. I will know then, 
at least, if you are living. I feel as if I am confess¬ 
ing a fault to you when I tell you I have heard from 
him at last—and more, that I was so glad to hear! 


22 


33« 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“Jack—dear Jack—he has never forgotten. He is free 
now; would marry me yet if it were possible. Write 
to me—tell me if it can ever be. I know how weak you 
will think me. Perhaps my late ill-health has made 
me more so; but I am hungry for the sound of the 
dear voice, and I am so alone since your father died. 
You will never come back; and you know, Jack, how 
loneliness always was so dreadful tome—even our boy 
is not enough. He does not understand. Come back, 
or write to me. Let my boy know his father, or else 
show me how to be patient; this silence is so terri¬ 
ble to Your Wife. 

“Jack, what a mockery that word looks—yet I am 
grateful.” 

And this was the letter he had told her to read and 
give to Stuart, if he never returned; but she gave it to 
no one. She mentioned it to no one, only waited to 
see if he ever came back, and with each reading of 
that other woman’s longings, there grew stronger in 
her the determination that his life belonged to the 
writer of that letter and her child—her boy, who 
looked like him. Surely there was a home and an 
affection that should cure him of this wild, semi-civ 
ilized life he was leading. She was slipping away 
that almighty need he had shown of herself. She 
grimly determined that all remembrance of it had 
got to be put aside; it was such an unheard-of, rea¬ 
sonless sort of an attraction anywa}^, and if she really 
had any influence over him, it should be used to make 
him answer that letter as it should be answered, and 
straighten out the strange puzzles in it. All this she 
determined she would tell him—when he got back. 


ON THE HEIGHTS. 


339 


CHAPTER VI. 

ON THE HEIGHTS. 

And while they commented, and wondered, and praised, 
and found fault with him, the day drifted into dark¬ 
ness, the darkness into a dreary dawn; and through 
all changes of the hours the outlaw stalked, with 
sometimes his ghastly companion bound to the saddle, 
and then again he would remount, holding Snowcap 
in his arms—but seldom halting, never wavering; 
and Mowitza, who seemed more than ever a familiar 
spirit, forged ahead as if ignoring the fact of hunger 
and scanty herbage to be found, her sturdy persist¬ 
ence suggesting a realization of her own importance. 

A broad trail was left for them, one showing that 
the detachment of braves and the horses of the troops 
had returned under forced march to bear the news to 
their village—and such news! 

The man’s dark face hardened and more than one 
of those expressive maledictions broke from him as 
he thoi^ht over it. All his sympathies were with 
theirr: T^or five years they had been as brethren to 
hi^m; never had any act of treachery touched him 
through them. To their people he was not Genesee 
the outcast, the immoral, the suspected. He was 
Lamonti—of the mountains—like their own blood. 

He was held wise in their councils, and his advice 
had weight. 

He could have ruled their chief, and so their 
nation, had he been ambitious for such control. 

He was their adopted son, and had never presumed on 


340 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


their liking, though he knew there was little in their 
slender power that would not have been his had he 
desired it. 

And now he knew he would be held their enemy. His 
influence had encouraged that sending of the message 
and the offered braves to the commander of the troops. 
Would they grant him a hearing now? or would 
they shoot him down, as the soldier had shot Snowcap, 
with his message undelivered? 

And those questions, and the retrospection back of 
them, were with him as he went upward into the 
mountains to the north. 

Another night was falling slowly, and the jewels of 
the far skies one by one slipped from their ether 
casket, and shone with impressive serenity on the 
crusted snow. Along the last ridge Mowitza bore for 
the last time her double burden. There was but a slope 
to descend, a sheltered cove to reach, and Snowcap 
would be given back to his kindred. 

The glittering surface of the white carpet warmed 
into reflected lights as the moon, a soft-footed, 
immature virgin, stole after the stars and let her 
gleams be wooed and enmeshed in the receptive arms 
of the whispering pine. Not a sound broke through 
the peace of the heights. In their sublime isolation, 
they lift souls as well as bodies above the common¬ 
place, and the rider, the stubborn keeper of so many of 
their secrets, threw back his head with a strange smile 
in his eyes as the last summit was reached—and 
reached in the light of peace. Was it an omen of 
good? He thought of that girl back in the valley 
who was willing to share this life of the hills with 
him. All things beautiful made him think of her, 
and the moon-kissed night was grand, up there above 


ON THE HEIGHTS. 


341 


where men lived. He thought of her superb faith, 
not in what he was, but in what her woman’s instinct 
told her it was possible for him to be. What a 
universe of loves in human hearts revolve about those 
unseen, unproven substances! 

He thought of the time when she had lain in his 
arms as Snowcap was lying, and he had carried her 
over the hills in the moonlight. He was bitterly 
cold, but through the icy air there came the thrill and 
flush of that long-past temptation. He wondered 
what she would say when they told her how he had 
used his freedom. The conviction of her approval 
gave again that strange smile of elation to his eyes; 
and the cold and hunger were ignored, and his 
fatigue fell from him. And with the tenderness that 
one gives to a sleeping child, he adjusted with his 
wounded hands the blanket that slipped from the 
dead boy, raising one of the rigid arms the better to 
shroud it in the gay colors. 

And then the peace of the heights was broken by a 
sharp report; the whiteness of the moonlight was 
crossed by the quick, red flash of death, and Mowitza 
stopped still in her tracks, while her master, with 
that dead thing clasped close in his arms, lunged for¬ 
ward on her neck. 


342 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER VIL 

A REBEL. 

Within the confines of Camp Kootenai there was a 
ripple of rejoicing. At last, after four days lost 
because of the snow, Major Dreyer had arrived, push¬ 
ing on with all possible haste after meeting the 
runner—and, to the bewilderment of all, he rode into 
camp on one of the horses stolen almost a week ago. 

“No mystery about it—only a little luck,” he said 
in explanation. “I found him at Holland’s as I came 
up. A white man belonging to the Blackfeet rode 
him in there several nights ago. The white man got 
drunk, picked a row, and got his pay for it. They 
gave him grave-room down there, and in the morning 
discovered that the beast had our brand, so gave him 
up to us as we came through.” 

Needless to say that this account was listened to 
with unusual interest. A man belonging to the 
Blackfeet! That proved Genesee’s theory of which he 
had spoken to Captain Holt—the theory that was so 
thoroughly discredited. 

When word was brought that the Major’s party had 
been sighted from the south, Fred and Rachel could 
hardly wait for the saddles to be thrown on the horses. 

Tillie caught the fever of impatience, and rode 
down beside Hardy. Stuart was not about. The days 
since Genesee’s departure he had put in almost 
entirely with the scouts stationed to note any 
approach from the north; he was waiting for that 
coming back. Kalitan, for the first time since} 


A REBEL. 


343 


Genesee’s flight, came into camp. The man who had 
seemed the friend of his friend was again in com¬ 
mand; and he showed his appreciation of the differ¬ 
ence by presenting himself in person beside Rachel, 
to whom he had allied himself in a way that was 
curious to the rest, and was so devotionally serious to 
himself. 

“Then, perhaps it was not that Genesee who stole 
the horses, after all,’’ broke in Fred, as her father told 
the story. 

“Genesee!—nonsense!” said the Major brusquely. 
“We must look into that affair at once,” and he 
glanced at the Captain; “but if that man’s a horse- 
thief, I’ve made a big mistake—and I won’t believe 
it until I have proof.” 

As yet there had been no attempt at any investiga¬ 
tion of affairs, only an informal welcoming group, 
and Fred, anxious to tell a story that she thought 
astonishing, recounted breathlessly the saving of the 
men by way of the mine, and of the gloves and the 
hands worn in that night’s work, and last, of the 
digging up of that body and carrying it away to the 
mountains. 

Her father, at first inclined to check her voluble 
recital-that would come to him in a more official form, 
refrained, as the practical array of facts showing 
through her admiration summed themselves up in a 
mass that echoed his convictions. 

“And that is the man suspected of stealing a few 
horses? Good God! what proof have you that will 
weigh against courage like that?” 

“Major, he scarcely denied it,” said the Captain, in 
extenuation of their suspicions. “Pie swore tlie 
Kootenais did not do it, and that’s all he would say. 


344 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


He was absent all the afternoon and all the night of 
the thievery, and refused to give any account what¬ 
ever of his absence, even when I tried to impress him 
with the seriousness of the situation. The man’s 
reputation, added to his suspicious absence, left me 
but one thing to do—I put him under guard.” 

"That does look strange,” agreed the Major, with a 
troubled face; “refused—” 

He was interrupted by a sound from Rachel, who had 
not spoken after the conversation turned to Genesee. 
But now she came forward with a low cry, trembling 
and passionate, doubt and hope blending in her face. 

“Did you say the night the horses were stolen?” she 
demanded. All looked at her wonderingly, and Kali- 
tan instinctively slid a little nearer. 

“Yes, it was in the night,” answered the Captain, 
“about two o’clock; but you surely knew about it?” 

"I? I knew nothing, ”‘she burst out furiously; "they 
lied to me—all of you. You told me it was in the 
morning. How dared you—how dared you do it?” 

The Major laid a restraining hand on her arm; he 
could feel that she was trembling violently. She had 
kept so contemptuously cool through all those days 
of doubt, but she was cool no longer; her face was 
white, but it looked a white fury. 

"What matter about the hour, Miss Rachel?” asked 
the commander; and she shook off his hand and 
stepped back beside Kalitan, as if putting herself 
where Genesee had put himself—with the Indians. 

“Because I could have told where Jack Genesee was 
that night, it they had not deceived me. He was 
with me." 

Tillie gave a little cry of wonder and contrition. 
She saw it all now. 


A REBEL. 


345 


“But—but you said it was a Kootenai who brought you 
home,” she protested feebly; “you told us Lamonti." 

“He is a Kootenai by adoption, and he is called 
Lamonti,” said the girl defiantly; “and the night 
those horses were run off, he was with me from an 
hour after sundown until four o’clock in the morning. ” 

That bold statement had a damaging ring to it— 
unnecessarily so; and the group about her, and the 
officers and men back of them, looked at her curiously. 

“Then, since you can tell this much in his favor, 
can you tell why he himself refused to answer so 
simple a question?” asked Major Dreyer kindly. 

That staggered her for a moment, as she put her 
hand up in a helpless way over her eyes, thinking— 
thinking fast. She realized now what it meant, the 
silence that was for her sake—the silence that was not 
broken even to her. And a mighty remorse arose for 
her doubt—the doubt she had let him see; yet he had 
not spoken ! She raised her eyes and met the curious 
glances of the men, and that decided her. They were 
the men who had from the first condemned him - 
been jealous of the commander’s trust. 

“Yes, I think I can tell you that, too,” she said 
frankly. “The man is my friend. I was lost in the snow 
that night; he found me, and it took us all night to 
get home. He knows how these people think of him; ” 
and her eyes spared none. “They have made him feel 
that he is an outcast among them. They have made 
him feel that a friendship or companionship with 
him is a discredit to any woman—oh, Iknow! They 
think so now, in spite cf what he has done for them. 
He knows that. He is very generous, and wanted, I 
suppose, to spare me; and I—I was vile enough to doubt 
him,” she burst out. “Even when I brought him his 


346 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


horse, I half believed the lies about him, and he 
knew it, and never said a word—not one word.” 

‘‘When you brought him his horse?” asked the 
Major, looking at her keenly, though not unkindly. 

And her remorse found a new vent in the bravado 
with which she looked at them all and laughed. 

“Yes,” she said defiantly, as if there was a certain 
comfort in braving their displeasure, and proving her 
rebellion to their laws; “y^s, I brought him his 
horse—not by accident either! I brought him brandy 
and provisions; I brought him revolvers and ammuni¬ 
tion. I helped him to escape, and I cut the bonds 
your guards had fastened him with. Now, what are 
you going to do about it?” 

Tillie gasped with horror. She did not quite know 
whether they would shoot her as a traitor, or only 
imprison her; but she knew military law could be a 
very dreadful thing, and her fears were extravagant. 

As for Miss Fred, her eyes were sparkling. With 
the quick deductions of her kind, she reasoned that, 
without the escape that night, the men would have 
died in that trap in the hills, and a certain delicious 
meeting and its consequences—of which she was wait¬ 
ing to tell the Major,—would never have been hers. 
And her feelings were very frankly expressed, as she 
stepped across to the self-isolated rebel and kissed 
her. 

‘‘You’re a darling—and a plucky girl,” she said 
warmly; ‘‘and you never looked so pretty in your 
life.” 

But the defiant face did not relax, even at that 
intelligence. Her eyes were on the commander, her 
judge. And he was looking with decided interest at 
her, 


A Rf.HEL. 


347 


"Yours is a very grave offense, Miss Rachel,” he 
said, with deliberation that struck added terrors to 
Tillie’s heart. "The penalty of contriving the escape 
of prisoners is one I do not like to mention to you; 
but since the man in this case was innocent, and I 
take your evidence in proof—well, that might be some 
extenuation of the act.” 

"I didn’t know he was innocent when I helped him,” 
she broke in; "I thought the horses were stolen after 
he left me.” 

"That makes it more serious, certainly; ” but his eyes 
were not at all serious. "And since you seem deter¬ 
mined to allow nothing in extenuation of your own 
actions, I can only say that—that I value very highly 
the forty men whose lives were saved to us by that 
escape; and when I see Mr. Genesee, I will thank 
him in the warmest way at my command; ” and he 
held out his hand to the very erect, very defiant rebel. 

She could scarcely believe it when she heard the 
words of praise about her; when one man after 
another of that rescued crowd came forward to shake 
hands with her—and Hardy almost lifted her off her 
feet to kiss her. "By George! I’m proud of you, 
Rachel,” he said impulsively. "You are plucky 
enough to—to be Genesee himself.” 

But the praise seemed a very little thing to her. 
Her bravado was over; she felt as if she must cry if 
they did not leave her alone. Of what use were words, 
if he should never come back—never know that he 
was cleared of suspicion? If they had so many kind 
words now, why had they not found some for him 
when he needed them? She did not know the uncom¬ 
promising surliness that made him so difficult of 
approach to many people, especially any who showed 


348 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


their own feeling of superiority, as most of them did, 
to a squaw man. 

She heard that term from the Major, a moment after 
he had shaken hands with her. He had asked what 
were the other suspicions mentioned against Genesee; 
she could not hear the answer—they had moved a 
little apart from her—but she could hear the 
impatience with which he broke in on their speech. 

“A squaw man!—well, what if he is?” he asked, 
with a serene indifference to the social side of the ques¬ 
tion. ‘‘What difference does it make whether the man^s 
wife has been red, or white, or black, so long as she 
suited him? There are two classes of squaw men, as 
there are of other men on the frontier—the renegades 
and the usual percentage of honest and dishonest 
citizens. YouWe all apparently been only willing 
to understand the renegades. Tve been along the 
border for thirty years, and some of the bravest white 
men Tve ever seen had Indian wives. Some of the 
men whose assistance in Indian wars has been invalu¬ 
able to us are ranchmen whose children are half- 
breeds, and who have taught their squaws housework 
and English at the same time, and made them a credit 
to any nation. There’s a heap of uncalled-for preju¬ 
dice against a certain class of those men; and, so far 
as I’ve noticed, the sneak who abandons his wife and 
children back in the States, or borrows the wife of 
someone else to make the trip out here with, is the 
specimen that is first to curl his lip at the squaw 
man. That girl over there strikes me as showing 
more common sense than the whole community; she 
gave him the valuation of a man.” 

The Major’s blood was up. It was seldom that he 
made so long a speech; but the question was one 


A REBEL. 


349 


against which he had clashed often, and to find the 
old prejudice was so strong a motor in the disorganiz¬ 
ing of an outpost was enraging. 

“And do you realize what that man did when he 
took that trail north?” he demanded impressively. 
“He knew that he carried his life in his hand as 
sure as he carried that body. And he went up there 
to play it against big odds for the sake of a lot of 
people who had a contemptible contempt for him.” 

“And cursed us soundly while he did it,” added 
one of the men, in an aside; but the Major overheard it. 

“Yes, that’s like him, too,” he agreed. “But, if any 
of you can show me so great a courage and conscien¬ 
tiousness in a more refined citizen. I’m waiting to see 
it.” 

And then there was the quick fall of hoofs outside 
the shack, hurried questions and brief answers. And 
one of the scouts from the north ridge hurried in and 
reported to Major Dreyer. 

“A gang o’ hostiles are in sight—not many; they’ve 
got our horses. Think they carry a flag o’ truce, but 
couldn’t spot it for sure. They’re not a lighten’ gang, 
any way, fur they’re comen’ slow and carryen’ some- 
then’. ” 

“A flag of truce? That means peace. Thank God!” 
said Tillie, fervently. 

“And Genesee,” added the Major. 

As for Rachel, her heart seemed in her throat. She 
tried to speak, to rush out and learn their message. 
But she could not move. An awful presentiment 
bound her. “Carrying something! ” 


350 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“when the sun goeth down.” 

‘ ‘ Opitsah !—Klahowya 

The}^ brought him—his dark, sad-faced brothers— 
bearing him on a bed of elastic poles and the skins of 
beasts; and walking through the lines of blue-coats as 
if not seeing them, they laid him on the floor of 
the shack, and grouped themselves clannishly in one 
corner, near his head. Stuart knelt with trembling 
hands to examine the cruel wound in the throat, and 
turned away, shaking his head. He could not speak. 
There was a slow, inward hemorrhage. He was bleed¬ 
ing to death. 

‘‘Determination has kept him alive,” decided the 
Major, when the spokesman of the Kootenais told of 
the shot on the mountain, and how they had to carry 
him, with Snowcap in his arms, to the wigwam of 
Grey Eagle; of the council through wdiich he kept up, 
and then told them he would live until he reached 
camp—he was so sure of it! And for the body of 
Snowcap he had asked the horses left in the gulch, 
and was given them—and much more, because of the 
sorrow of their nation. He did not try to speak at 
first, only looked about, drinking in the strange kind¬ 
ness in all the faces; and then reached out his hand 
toward Rachel. 

" Opiisahl" he whispered, with that smile of triumph 
in his eyes. ‘‘I told you Pd live—till I got back to 
you;” and then his eyes turned to the Major. ‘‘I got 
a stand-off on the hostilities—till your return—inside 


“when the sun goeth down. 


351 


my coat—I wrote it.’’ He ceased, gasping, while they 
drew out the “talking-paper” with the mark of Grey 
Eagle at the foot, and on it also were there murderous 
stains. 

“You—treat with them now,” he continued, “but— 
be careful. Don’t shirk promises. They’re easy 
managed now—like a lot of children, just because they 
shot me—when I was carrying Snowcap home. But 
they’ll get over—that, and then—be careful. They 
were ready for the war-path—when I got there.” 

He saw Captain Holt not far from him, and through 
the pallor of his face a faint flush crept. 

“Well, Tve come back for my trial,” he scowled, 
with something of his old defiance; and the Major 
knelt down and took his hand. 

“That’s all over, Genesee,” he said gently. “It was 
a big mistake. There is not a soul here with any¬ 
thing but gratitude and admiration for you. It was 
your own fault you were suspected; Miss Rachel has 
explained. Why did you not?” 

He did not answer—only looked at her, and seemed 
gathering his strength for some final effort. 

“I want someone—to write.” 

He was still holding Rachel’s hand. She had not 
said a word; only her eyes seemed to tell him enough. 

Stuart came forward. “Will I do, Jack?” 

Jack nodded, and more than one was astonished at 
the signs of grief in Stuart’s face. Rachel was past 
speculation. 

"This lady, here,” said Genesee, motioning to her, 
“has done a heap for me—more than she knows—I 
reckon—and I want—to square things.” 

Rachel attempted to speak; but he raised his hand. 

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Let me say it— iillikiwi." 


352 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


Then he turned to Stuart. “There’s a bit of ground 
up in the hills; it’s mine, and I want her to have it— 
it’s Tamahnous Hill—and the old mine—write it.” 

She thought of that other woman, and tried to 
protest. But again he saw it, and pressed her hand 
for silence. 

“I want her to have it—for she likes these hills, 
and—she’s been mighty good to me. No one will 
interfere—with her claim—I reckon." 

“No one shall interfere,” said Stuart, toward whom 
he looked. Genesee smiled. 

“That’s right—that’s all right. She won’t be 
afraid of the—witches. And she’ll tell you where I 
want to go—she knows.” His voice was growing 
fainter; they could see he was almost done with the 
Kootenai valley. 

“In my pocket is something—from the mine,” he 
said, looking at Rachel; “it will show you—and there’s 
.mother will in the bank—at Holland’s—it is—for 
Annie. ” 

Stuart guided his hand for the signature to the 
paper. Stuart wrote his own, and Hardy followed, his 
eyes opening in wonder at something written there. 

A slight rustle in the group at the door drew the 
Major’s attention, and a young face coming forward 
made him turn to Stuart. 

“I had altogether forgotten that I brought someone 
from Holland’s for you—a boy sent there to find J. S. 
Stuart. I knew it must be C. S. Stuart, though, and 
brought him along.” 

A dark-faced little fellow, with a sturdy, bright look, • 
walked forward at the commander’s motion. But his 
wondering gaze was on the man lying there with such 
an eager look in his eyes. 


WHEN THE SUN GOETH DOWN. 


353 


“This is Mr. Stuart,” said the Major, and then 
turned to Genesee. 

The Stuart’s face was white as the wounded man’s 
as the boy looked up at him, frankly. 

“I’m—I’m Jack,” he said; “and mamma sent a 
letter. ” 

The letter was held out, and the boy’s plucky 
mouth trembled a little at the lack of welcome; not 
even a hand-shake, and he was such a little fellow— 
about ten. But Stuart looked like a man who sees a 
ghost. He took the letter, after a pause that seemed 
very long to the people who watched his strange man¬ 
ner. Then he looked at the envelope, took the boy by 
the arm, and thrusting the Major blindly aside, he 
knelt by Genesee. 

“This is for you, Jack,” he said, motioning the oth¬ 
ers back by a gesture—all but Rachel—that hand-clasp 
was so strong! “and your namesake has brought it.” 

“Read it,” and he motioned Rachel to take it; 
“read me Annie’s letter.” 

She read it lowly—a repetition of that other plea 
that Jack had left with her, and its finale the same 
longing request that her boy should at last be let 
know his father. Stuart was in tears when she 
finished. 

“Jack," he said, "ten years is a long time; I’ve 
suffered every hour of them. Give me the boy; let 
me know you are agreed at last. Give Annie back to 
me ! ” 

Jack raised his hand to the bewildered boy, who 
took it reverently. 

“You are Annie’s boy?” he whispered; “kiss me for 
her—tell her—” And then his eyes sought Stuart’s— 
“I held them in pawn for you. I reckon 3^ou’re earnest 

23 


354 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


enough now—to redeem them. What was that verse 
about—giving back the pledge when—the sun goes 
down? You read it. Mother used to read it—little 
mother! She will be glad, I reckon—she—” 

Stuart was sobbing outright, with his arms about 
the boy. Rachel, with the letter in her hand, was as 
puzzled as those who had drawn out of hearing. Only 
the Indians stood close and impassive. Jack meeting 
her eyes, smiled. 

“You know now—all about—them—and Annie. 
That was why I tried—to keep away from you—you 
know now.” 

But she did not know. 

“You took his wife from him?’’she said, in a maze 
of conflicting revelations; and Jack looked at Stuart, 
as she added, “and who were you?” 

“He is my brother! ” said Stuart, in answer to that 
look of Jack’s. “He would not let me say it before— 
not for years. But he is my brother! ” 

The words were loud enough for all to hear, and 
there was a low chorus of surprise among the group. 
But all concealment was about over for Genesee— 
even the concealment of death. 

And then Stuart looked across at Rachel. He 
heard that speech, “You took his wife from him;” 
and he asked no leave of Jack to speak now. 

“Don’t think that of him,” he said, steadily. “You 
have been the only one who has, blindfolded, judged 
him aright. Don’t fail him now. He is worth all 
the belief you had in him. The story I read you 
that night was true. His was the manhood you 
admired in it; mine, the one you condemned. As I 
look back on our lives now, his seems to me one 
immense sacrifice—and no compensations—one terri- 


“when the sun goeth down. ” 


355 


ble isolation; and now—now everything comes to him 
too late!” 

“He is—sorry,” whispered Genesee, “and talks wild— 
but—you know now?” 

“Yes,” and the girPs face had something of the 
solemn elation of his own. “Yes, I know now.” 

“And—you will live in the hills—may be?—not so 
very far away from—me. In my pocket—is something— 
from the mine—Davy will tell you. Be good to—my 
Kootenais; they think—a heap of you. Kali tan!” 

The Arrow came forward, and shook reve''ently the 
hand of the man who had been -master to him. The 
eyes roved about the room, as if in search of others 
unseen. Rachel guessed what was wanted, and 
motioned to the Indians. 

“Come; your brother wants you,” she said. And as 
they grouped about him and about her, they barred 
out the soldiers and civilians—the white brother and 
child—barred out all from him save his friends of 
the mountains and the wild places—the haunts of 
exiles. And the girl, as one by one they touched her 
hand at his request, and circled her with their dark 
forms, seemed to belong to them too. 

“When the—snow melts—the flowers are on that 
ledge,” he whispered with his eyes closed, “and the 
birds—not echoes—the echoes are in the mine— 
don’t be—afraid. Til go along—and Mowitza.” 

He was silent for so long that she stooped and 
whispered to him of prayer. He opened his eyes and 
smiled at her. 

“Give me—your good wishes—and kiss me, and Til 
—risk hell,” was the characteristic answer given so 
low that she had to watch closely the lips she 
kissed. 


356 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


“And you’ve kissed me—again! Who said—no com¬ 
pensation?—they—don’t know; we know—and the 
moonlight, and—yes—mother knows; she thought, at 
last—I was not—all bad; not all—little mother! And 
now—don’t be afraid; I won’t go— i2iX— -klaJiowya, my 
girl—my girl! ” 

And then one Indian from the circle unslung his 
rifle from his shoulder and shattered it with one blow 
of an axe by the fire. The useless thing was laid be¬ 
side what had been Genesee. And the owner, shroud¬ 
ing his head in his blanket, sat apart from the rest. 
It was he of the bear claws; the sworn friend of La- 
monti, and the man who had shot him. 

At sunset he was laid to rest in the little plateau 
on Scot’s Mountain that faces the west. He was borne 
there by the Indians, who buried in his grave the 
tomahawk they had resurrected for the whites of Camp 
Kootenai. Mowitza, rebelliously impatient, was led 
riderless by Kalitan. All military honors were paid 
him who had received no honors in life, the rites end¬ 
ing by that volley of sound that seals the grave of a 
soldier. 

And then the pale-faces turned again to the south, 
and the dark-faces took the trail to the north, and 
the sun with a last flickering blaze flooded the snow 
with crimson, and died behind the western peaks 
they had watched light up one morning. 


RASHELL OF LAMONTI. 


357 


CHAPTER IX. 

“rASHELL of LAMONTI." 

The echoes are no longer silent in Tamahnous Peak. 
The witchcraft of silver has killed the old super¬ 
stition. The “something” in Genesee’s pocket had 
been a specimen that warranted investigation. The 
lost tribe had left enough ore there through the dark¬ 
ness of generations to make mining a thing profit¬ 
able. Above those terraces of unknown origin there is 
a dwelling-house now, built of that same bewitched 
stone in which the echoes sleep; and often there is 
gathered under its roof a strange household. 

The words of Genesee, “Be good to my Kootenais! ” 
have so far been remembered by the girl who during 
the last year of his life filled his thoughts so greatly. 
His friends are her friends, and medley as the lot 
would appear to others, they are welcome to her. They 
have helped her solve a problem of what use she could 
make of her life. Her relatives have given up in 
despair trying to alter her unheard-of manner of liv¬ 
ing. An idea is prevalent among them that Rachel’s 
mind, on some subjects, is really queer—she was 
always so erratic! They speak to her of the loneli¬ 
ness of those heights, and she laughs at them. She 
is never lonely. She had his word that he would not 
go far. With her lives old Dav}^ MacDougall, who 
helps her much in the mining matters, and Kalitan is 
never far off. He is her shadow now, as he once was 
Genesee’s. Indian women do the work of her home. 


358 


TOLU IN THE HILLS. 


A school is there for any who care to learn, and in 
the lodges of the Kootenais she is never forgotten. 

It seemed strange that he who had so few friends in 
his life should win her so many by his death. The 
Indians speak of him now with a sort of awe, as their 
white brother whose counsels were so wise, whose 
courage was so great; he who forced from the spirits 
the secret of the lost mine. He has drifted into 
tradition as some wonderful creature who was among 
them for a while, disappearing at times, but always 
coming back at a time of their need. 

To Rachel they turn as to something which they 
must guard—for he said so. She is to them always 
“Rashell of Lamonti”—of the mountains. 

From the East and South come friends sometimes 
—letters and faces of people who knew him; Miss 
Fred and her husband, and the Major, who is a stanch 
friend and admirer of the eccentric girl who was 
once a rebel in his camp; and in reminiscences the 
roughness of his Kootenai chief of scouts is swathed 
in the gray veil of the past—only the lightning-flashes 
of courage are photographed in the veteran’s memory. 

And the Stuart and his wife and boy come there some¬ 
times in the summer; and the girl and little Jack, who 
are very fond of each other, ride over the places where 
the other Jack Stuart rode—nameless for so long. 

As for Prince Charlie, his natural affection for chil¬ 
dren amounts to adoration of the bo)L Rachel won¬ 
ders sometimes if the ideal his remorse had fostered 
for so long was filled at last by the girl whom he 
had left a delicately tinted apple-blossom and found a 
delicate type of the invalid, whose ill-health never 
exceeds fashionable indisposition. If not, no word or 
sign from him shows it. The pretty, ideal phases of 



RASHELL OF LAMONTI. ” 


359 


domestic love and life that he used to write of, are 
not so ready to his pen as they once were through his 
dreams and remorse. Much changed for him in those 
northern hills, and they have still a fascination for 
him. He writes of them a good deal. 

“It is the witchcraft of the place, or else it is you, 
Rachel,” he said, once. “Both help me. When life 
grows old and stale in civilization, I come up here 
and am straightway young again. I can understand 
now how you helped Jack.” 

His wife—a pretty little woman with a gently 
appealing air—never understands Rachel much, though 
she and Tillie are great friends; but, despite 
Tillie’s praise, Annie never can discover what there is 
in the girl for “Charlie and all the other men to like 
so much—and even poor, dear Jack, who must have 
been in love with her to leave her a silver mine.” 
To Annie she seems rather clever, but with so little 
affection! and not even sympathetic, as most girls 
are. She heard of Rachel’s pluck and bravery; but 
that is so near to boldness!—as heroes are to advent¬ 
urers; and Annie is a very prim little woman herself. 
She quotes “my husband” a good deal, and rates his 
work with the first writers of the age. 

And the work has grown earnest; the lessons of 
Rachel’s prophecy have crept into it. He has in so 
many ways justified them—achieved more than he 
hoped; but he never will write anything more fasci¬ 
nating than the changeless youth in his own eyes, or 
the serious tenderness of his own mouth when he 
smiles. 

“Prince Charlie is a rare, fine lad,” old Davy re¬ 
marked at the end of an autumn, as he and Rachel 
watched their visitors out of sight down the valley; “a 


36 o 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


man fine enough to be brother to Genesee, an’ I ne’er 
was wearied o’ him till I hearkened to that timorous 
fine lady o’ his lilting him into the chorus o’ every 
song she sung. By her tellen’ she’s the hrst o’ the 
wives that’s ever had a husband.” 

‘‘But she is not a fine lady at all,” contradicted 
Rachel; “and she’s a very affectionate, very good little 
woman. You are set against her because of that story 
of long ago—and that is hardly fair, Davy Mac- 
Dougall. ” 

‘‘Well, then, I am not, lass. It’s little call I have 
to judge children, but I own I’m ower cranky when I 
think o’ the waste o’ a man’s life for a bit pigeon 
like that—an’ a manlike my lad was! The prize was 
no’ worth the candle that give light to it. A man’s 
life is a big thing to throw away, lass, an’ I see 
nothing in that bit o’ daintiness to warrant it. Tome 
it’s a woeful waste.” 

The girl walked on beside him through the fresh, 
sweet air of the morning that was filled with crisp 
kisses—the kisses that warn the wild things of the 
Frost-King’s coming. She was separated so slightly 
from the wild things herself that she was growing 
to understand them in a new spirit—through a sym¬ 
pathy touched less by curiosity than of old. She thought 
of that man who slept across on Scot’s Mountain, in 
sight of Tamahnous Peak; how he had understood 
them!—not through the head, but the heart. Through 
some reflected light of feeling she had lived those last 
days of his life at a height above her former level. 
She had seen in the social outlaw who loved her a 
soul that, woman-like, she placed above where she 
knelt. Perhaps it had been the uncivilized heroism, 
perhaps the unselfish, deliberate sacrifice, appealing 


"rashell of lamonti.” 


to a hero-worshiper. But something finer in nature 
than she had ever been touched by in a more civilized 
life had come to her through him in those last days— 
not through the man as men knew him, and not 
through the love he had borne her—but through the 
spirit she thought she saw there. 

It may have been in part an illusion—women have 
so many—but it was strong in her. It raised her life 
up to touch the thing she had placed on the heights, 
and something of the elation that had come to him 
through that last sacrifice filled her, and forbade her 
return into the narrowed valleys of existence. 

His wasted life! It had been given at last to the 
wild places he loved. It had left its mark on the 
humanity of them, and the mark had not been a mean 
one. The girl, thinking of what it had done for her, 
wondered often if the other lives of the valley that 
winter could live on without carrying indelible col¬ 
oring from grateful, remorseful emotions born there. 
She did not realize how transient emotions are in 
some people; and then she had grown to idealize him 
so greatly. She fancied herself surely one of many, 
while really she was one alone. 

"Yes, lass—a woeful waste,” repeated the old man; 
and her thoughts wandered back to their starting- 
place. 

"No!” she answered with the sturdy certainty of 
faith. "The prodigality there was not wastefulness, 
and was not without a method—not a method of his 
own, but that something beyond us we call God or 
Fate. Lives he lived or died for may seem of 
mighty little consequence individually, but what is, 
is more than likely to be right, Davy MacDougall, 
even if we canH see it from our point of view;” and 


362 


TOLD IN THE HILLS. 


then, after a little, she added, “he is not the first lion 
that has died to feed dogs—there was that man of 
Nazareth. ’’ 

Davy MacDougall stopped, looking at her with 
fond, aged eyes that shone perplexedly from under 
his shaggy brows. 

“You’re a rare, strange lass, Rachel Hardy,” he 
said at last, “an’ long as I’ve known ye. I’m not ower 
certain that I know ye at all. The lad used to be a 
bit like that at times, but when I see ye last at the 
night. I’m ne’er right certain what I’ll find ye in the 
mornin’. ” 

“You’ll never find me far from that, at any rate,” 
and she motioned up the “Hill of the Witches,” and 
on a sunny level a little above them Mowitza and 
Kalitan were waiting. 

“Then, lass, ye’ll ne’er tak’ leave o’ the Kootenai 
hills? ” 

“I think not. I would smother now in the life those 
people are going to,” and she nodded after those 
departing guests who were going back to the world. 
Then her eyes turned from the mists of the valleys 
to the whispering peace of cedars that guard Scot’s 
Mountain. “No, Davy, I’ll never leave the hills.” 


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Attention is directed to this Paragraph from 
the The Times newspaper: 


“DANGEROUS SOAPS.—At a recent sitting of the 
Academy of Medicine, Dr. Reveil read a paper on the 
necessity of Preventing Chemists and Perfumers from 
selling poisonous or dangerous Soaps. To show the 
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of mercury (vermillion). Some contain 30 per cent, of 
insoluble matter, such as lime or plaster, and others con¬ 
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Inflammation of the Skin.’” 


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With the fullest confidence the Proprietors of PEARS’ SOAP 
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From Professor Toms' ATTFIFLI), 

Professor of Practical Chemistry to the Pharmaceutical Society of Great Britain; 
Author of a Manual of General Medical and Pharmaceutical Chemistry. 

“ I have annually, for the past ten years, made an inde¬ 
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it to vary in quality or composition. It contains neither 
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([iaP*’ Insist on having Pears’ Soap. Substitutes are sometimes 
recommended by druggists and storekeepers for the sole purpose of 
making more profit out of you. 


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